No Need to Remember
by Taiven
Summary: Dr. Brant receives a new patient. He's cocky, arrogant, irrational, and completely haunted. Dr. Brant soon realizes that 'crazy' may not be limited to the boundaries of the mind.
1. Chapter One

**Summary: **Dr. Brant receives a new patient. He's cocky, arrogant, irrational, and completely haunted. Dr. Brant soon realizes that 'crazy' may not be limited to the boundaries of the mind.

**Timeline**: Sam is 23, Dean is 27

**Rating: **M

**Warnings: **Foul language, violence, disturbing scenes

**A/N:** First eleven chapters have been updated slightly from their original posts.

* * *

**NO NEED TO REMEMBER**

**Chapter I**

* * *

**From the computer files of Richard Jonas Brant, PhD**

Psychiatrist, Department of Mental Health

Red Grove Asylum

Assigned to Patient 05494

_He proved to be one of my most unusual patients. He was not like any of the others I had treated in the past, and in all my years I have never come across a case like his. It is apparent that for most of the duration he spent at the asylum he was still confused about everything that had happened. He was still putting the pieces together, yet he seemed to recall a lot more than he let on. He claimed that he remembered everything after a while, but the world he described to me was impossible, unbelievable. Yet somehow I find myself considering the possibility that it is all true. I write this because I am beginning to doubt reality._

* * *

"Good morning, Julia," Richard Brant announced as he walked into the room.

The secretary was gazing down at a stack of papers when she heard his voice and promptly looked up. She was a woman in her mid forties and the wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and at the edges of her eyes showed that life had been good to her. She smiled cheerfully before replying, "Good morning, doctor."

Richard passed the front desk with a friendly nod and headed towards his office. It was their morning ritual. For nearly twelve years they had played the same parts. They'd always say the same thing, throwing in a "Happy Birthday" or a "How were your holidays?" whenever the need arose. It was part of a routine, one he had come to accept many years ago.

Richard Brant, PhD, was pleasant by nature; a patient man who had committed his life to helping others. His dark brown hair was beginning to grey around the edges while thin-rimmed glasses framed his intelligent brown eyes. He also had wrinkles on his face but they had been caused by many moments of stress and tension in his past forty-seven years of life.

Twenty-two of those years he had spent listening to the problems of others, trying to find solutions, or in most cases, a diagnosis. As his career path led him from teenagers coping with bullying to dangerous psychopaths on death row, the enthusiasm he had for his job had waned a little, but he was content here at Red Grove Asylum. It suited him well. He could make a difference here.

He was about to round the corner to his office when Julia's voice rang out behind him and he stopped and turned. "Dr. Brant?" the woman called, her head stretching out from behind the desk. "You have a new patient. The file is on your desk and the first appointment is in fifteen minutes."

He sighed, his plans for the morning suddenly ruined, but then concurred and rounded the corner. His office was at the end of the narrow hallway and he made it to the room with five quick strides. Shutting the door quietly behind him, he sat behind his desk and placed his briefcase next to his feet. The doctor searched for the promised file and was able to locate it immediately. The beige folder sat next to the metal object standing at the edge of his desk that read 'Dr. R. Brant' in large letters and 'Psychiatrist' in smaller ones beneath. He picked up the folder and began to read the patient's record.

* * *

**ST. LUCIUS HOSPITAL**

**Consulting Psychiatrist**

**Assessment and Recommendations**

**Recipient Name: _**John Doe_

**Date of Assessment: _**05/03/2006_

**Recipient Date of Birth: _**N/A__

**Attending Psychiatrist: _**Simon Harold_**_**

**RECORD REVIEW/DIAGNOSTIC INTERVIEW:**

Patient was found unconscious at a crime scene on April 28th, 2006. Claimed to have no memory (amnesia) after he awoke. Admitted to psychiatric ward when patient began to speak of incoherent matters in medical care and began to worry doctors.

Patient was uncooperative, refusing to speak for the majority of the interview. When conversing, alternated between mumbling about incoherent matters and making aggressive and sarcastic comments

**RISK ASSESSMENT:**

**_Current psychiatric assessment of danger to self or others_**

Potential for endangering others is moderately high. Patient attacked security personnel while being treated.

Potential for endangering himself is moderately low.

**RECIPIENT'S ABILITY TO ACCESS WEAPONS: **

Patient showed adapt ability in hand to hand combat

**MENTAL STATUS EXAMINATION:**

**Appearance: **Exhausted but alert

**Behavior: **Hostile, confused

**Recent & Remote Memory: **No remote (due to amnesia), little recent (since accident)

**Knowledge & Reasoning: **Demonstrated a few lapses in reasoning during moments of confusion

**Attention & Concentration: **Distracted at times

**Mood & Affect: **Sometimes on edge, jumpy, anxious; calm and confident usually

**Motor Movements: **OK

**Orientation: **Delusional at times

**Vegetative Symptoms: **Recent fall, but no serious head injury

**Speech/Thought Process: **Non-personal, often sarcastic

**Thought content Delusions: **Believes in supernatural beings

**Hallucinations: **Ghosts

**DIAGNOSIS:**

Undecided

**PSYCHIATRIC RECOMMENDATIONS:**

Continue to interview. Determine the patient's past to better diagnose his current symptoms. Consider hospitilization.

**RECIPIENT RISK ASSESSMENT: **

Based on the above overall findings and anticipated immediate complication of treatment the recipient is considered a high risk and will need the services described above to stabilize their current symptoms and crisis.

**Total Time Spent on Assessment: **150 minutes

**To the best of my knowledge and given the current limitations of knowing the entire physical history and health record of a recipient, I certify there is no overt evidence of communicable disease with this recipient.**

**Signature of Provider: **Simon Harold

**Date: **05/04/2006

* * *

Richard could already tell this case would be a difficult one, or perhaps merely different.

He reread the file until he was positive he knew all the facts, or at least those that were available, and glanced at the clock. His new patient would be arriving shortly. Apparently it was his job to help him remember his past. Dr. Brant had done something very similar a few years back and was somewhat confident he could handle this case.

The phone rang and he put it on speaker. "Yes?" he asked in a deep tone, and the voice of the secretary met his ears once more. "Your new patient has arrived, Dr. Brant."

"All right. Send him in, Julia." The phone clicked off and the doctor stood up. He had always been a little nervous when it came to meeting new patients, though he had been doing it for the past twenty-two years. He waited patiently as the door opened.

He was not what he had expected. The patient appeared to be in his late twenties, tall with short blonde hair and handsome features. His eyes were dark despite their hazel colouring, surrounded by shadows created from lack of sleep, and the fading colours of a bruise encircling his left eye. Stubble stretched across his chin and a small cut was visible on his lower lip. He wore the standard dark blue outfit of all the patients of the institution and was followed closely by one of the staff members.

Dr. Brant made his way around the desk to greet his patient properly. He stuck out his hand as he introduced himself but the man simply stared at him, a look of derision flickering in his sunken eyes. Clearing his throat and lowering his arm, Dr. Brant addressed the staff member. His name was Jerry Oakwood, a hefty man with short dark hair and narrow, blue eyes. He was what the institution considered "security", always standing close when any unstable patient was given the smallest amount of freedom. Dr. Brant had spoken with him on numerous occasions and they had grown to be acquaintances over the ten years the man had been working in the building.

"Thanks Jerry. I trust you'll wait outside now?"

"Like always, Doc," the man answered. He took a small glance at the patient and leaned in towards the doctor. "Be careful with this one, Rich. He's a troublemaker." The man then gave the patient one last glimpse and exited the room.

Richard Brant turned his attention from the door and smiled. "Well, I guess we should begin the session. If you'd like to take a seat here I think we'll start." He gestured towards one of two chairs sitting opposite from each other in a corner of the room and took the other for himself. He felt a small amount of relief as the man sat down without objection, Jerry's warning still playing in his mind.

"I noticed that you don't have a name written on your file," he began. "Is there any particular name you'd like to be called?"

The patient remained silent for a moment but then opened his mouth to say something. He seemed to reconsider, closed his mouth once more, and then said, "Dean."

"Dean?" The doctor wondered why he had chosen the name. "All right Dean, let's begin." He was grateful for something to call his new patient now, and the words flowed easily from his lips. "I understand you have amnesia. Is there anything you remember from your past life? Anything at all?"

Dean stared at the doctor blankly. "No," he answered, his voice flat and emotionless.

"All right." Dr. Brant sighed. Dean clearly did not want to cooperate, but his reaction was similar to most patients' during their first session. Human beings are private creatures by nature, and telling a stranger anything at all about their life was oftentimes an uncomfortable process. The patient had built a wall around him. He was unsure if this wall had been built years before or just recently, but either way, he needed to discover a way to break through it. He required a weakness in the foundation to chip away at.

"That cut on your lip, and the bruise, how did you get them?" He shifted into a more comfortable position in his chair as his voice became inquisitive.

The patient swallowed but then raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. "A fight with one of the other guys."

The doctor immediately noticed that Dean had avoided the word 'patients' and replaced it with 'one of the other guys'. He latched onto this observation and added it to the conversation. He needed Dean to become more involved, to _feel_ the need to talk. "You mean one of the other patients?"

"Yeah. Whatever."

He wasn't sure if this would lead anywhere but it seemed to be as good a place to start as any. "Why were you two in a fight?"

"He was being an asshole. Why else?"

"Did he say something offensive to you?"

Dean rolled his eyes and Dr. Brant took it as a good sign. At least he was getting some sort of reaction.

"He wanted something that didn't belong to him."

"What was it?"

The patient seemed to be getting angry at the number of questions and Dr. Brant decided it was time to switch gears.

"My necklace," Dean replied suddenly. "He wanted my necklace."

Or not.

"Your necklace? You have it on now?" Patients were not allowed such possessions in the institution and he wondered if Jerry knew of this.

"Yeah. They told me to take it off but…" Dean's expression abruptly softened as the atmosphere of hostility around him seemed to vanish. "I think it's important."

He was definitely getting somewhere with this. "Important? Do you _remember_ it being important?"

The shield was back up and Dean's stare was stony once more. "No. I told you, I don't remember anything."

"Right. I'm sorry." The doctor shuffled the papers in his hands and cleared his throat. It was time to change the topic, but he made a mental note to return to this area as soon as possible. "Do you know why you're here, Dean?"

"Yeah," he sneered. "Because I can't remember anything, and everything I think I remember is regarded as 'insane'. I know _exactly_ why I'm here."

"We don't necessarily think that you are mentally unhealthy, Dean. We just believe you may be confused. You're here because we might be able to help you remember what you have forgotten so that you can return to your normal life."

"Bullshit," Dean said bluntly. "The last time I dealt with one of you shrinks, I ended up locked up here."

"The doctor who examined your mental state at the hospital must have had a good reason to recommend you come here, Dean."

"Yeah, he asked me if I remembered why I had been found at that abandoned building, if I could remember, and I told him I was hunting for ghosts. _As a_ _joke_. Guy took me seriously, though."

"I'm sure he was trying to help you gain your memories back, just as I am."

"Well you're doing a great job so far." There was a clear tone of sarcasm in Dean's voice and Dr. Brant frowned in disapproval. Jerry's words were proving to be true.

"Dean, you must understand that we're trying to help you," he said sternly. "Now, I'd like you to _try_ to remember anything you can. Can you do that for me?"

"First off, cut the crap." Dean's abruptness shocked the doctor into silence. "Second, stop talking to me like I'm a child. I might not know who I am but I know enough to tell you I can understand _big words_. And third, I told you I _can't_ remember anything. There's no point in trying if it isn't going to get me anywhere." He looked at the stunned doctor with venom in his eyes and a small amount of smugness.

"All right, Dean." The doctor's voice had suddenly lost its friendliness, gaining a hard edge almost similar to his patient's. "If you want to behave this way I guess it's only fair that I can as well. The reason you are here in my office, in this institution, is because we think you are mentally unstable. Your accident may have caused it or maybe you were like this before the incident. Whatever the cause, you are here because we think you are unhealthy and unfit to be let into society, and what I need is for you to co-operate and to do what I ask you to do. Is that _understandable_?"

Richard Brant had never acted this way towards one of his patients. In fact, he had never raised his voice to anyone unless given a very good reason. He had no clue why, but Dean had somehow infuriated him to the summit of his breaking point and now he was staring at the man before him with anger illuminating in his eyes. He knew he had lost all hope of reaching the patient and he now expected him to become alienated by his words. He was strangely surprised when Dean smiled.

"That's more like it, Doc," he said. "What do you need to know?"

* * *

**To be continued.**


	2. Chapter Two

**A/N:** First eleven chapters have been updated slightly from their original posts.

* * *

**NO NEED TO REMEMBER**

**Chapter II**

_"I'm telling you, Dean. If you don't slow down you're going to cause an accident."_

_"Relax, Sammy. I know what I'm doing." I shot a playful grin at the younger man sitting in the passenger seat. "Now, do I take a left or a right up there?"_

_'Sammy' shook his head but allowed a small smile to appear on his face as he looked down at the map huddled in his lap. "Right. Take a right." _

/

Another session. The second this week. It was a Friday and rain washed down the windows in great rivulets. Maybe it was the dreary weather that made him on edge, but Dr. Brant was already irritated as he entered his office.

"You're late, Doc." Dean was situated on one of the large, leather armchairs, the one the doctor had sat upon during their last session. His legs were sprawled out before him and his posture was weak as he slumped against the backrest, his hands clasped on his stomach and his elbows resting on the arms of the chair. Jerry had allowed him into the room five minutes earlier but had kept a wary eye on him the entire time. He had reassured Richard Brant of this before the doctor had entered his office.

"Traffic was bad," he mumbled as an excuse, placing his briefcase on the desk. His last session with Dean had not led to anything helpful, only uncovering more questions. Yes, Dean had been willing to co-operate after Richard had spoken frankly with him, but he was still unable to recall the majority of memories he had lost due to his accident. All of the information he had recollected and shared was already written in his file.

"So, is it time to begin?" Dean asked with an arch of an eyebrow.

"Yes, I guess so." Sitting hesitantly down across from his patient, Dr. Brant crossed his arms on his knees and leaned forward. "How are you feeling, Dean?"

The question seemed to amuse the young man and he raised his hands, gesturing to the room before replying, "Crazy, I guess."

The doctor allowed a small chuckle to escape his throat but remained intent on getting a serious answer. Dean's avoidance just confirmed an attribute Richard had noticed belonged to the man sitting before him. Dean hid his emotions. He covered up any feeling with a joke or a blank mask or a change of the topic. Dr. Brant had to admit he was pretty good at it too. His face was always impassive; emotionless unless he was being cocky or irritated. In his previous patients this had usually been a sign of a troubled past event. Dr. Brant wondered what could have possibly happened to cause Dean to build such a thick wall around him. There were multiple possibilities.

He slid back and placed his hands on the arms of the chair. "I want to make one thing clear." Dean seemed to be listening so he continued. "The only way I am going to be able to help you, the only way you are going to be able to remember, is if you try. Just try. Starting right now."

Dean contemplated the doctor's words for a moment. "How do I try?"

"You said you remembered a shotgun?" He nodded. "Do you have any idea why you might remember that? Were you a hunter?" Something flashed in Dean's eyes and Dr. Brant became more alert. "Is that why you joked around and said you hunted ghosts?"

"I hunted… I… I don't remember hunting animals."

Dr. Brant clasped his hands as he gained this new information. "Then you were _not_ a hunter?" Thoughts of what else the shotgun could have been used for ran through his mind but he quickly pushed them away, sticking with the facts.

"I… No- Wait… I wasn't holding the shotgun. It was pointed _at_ me."

Dr. Brant stared at his patient. "Someone was pointing a shotgun at you?"

"Yah. No. It wasn't me. I mean, it was, but… I don't think it's my memory."

This puzzled the doctor further but he continued asking questions. "Then whose memory was it, Dean? Perhaps it's from a story someone once told you? Or something you saw on television?"

Hazel eyes glared at him as Dean's face suddenly darkened over. "It's not mine! It didn't come from me! It doesn't belong in my head!" he shouted, and he stood up, his hands clenched in threatening fists.

Dr. Brant was shocked by this abrupt change in behaviour and stood up as well, slowly and cautiously, while holding out his hand in an attempt to calm the patient down. "It's okay, Dean. I know you're confused but you need to sit back down."

Dean's expression changed once more and he now looked at Dr. Brant pleadingly. Anger still burned in his eyes but it was no longer directed towards the doctor. "They're taking my thoughts, Doc," he groaned, clenching his eyes shut.

"Who? Who's taking your thoughts, Dean?"

"They're taking my memories and giving me theirs." He placed a hand against his brow as if he was suffering from a migraine. "I don't want their memories!" His eyelids snapping open, Dean knocked the chair behind him to the wooden floor as if it was a rickety stool.

The door swung open and Jerry suddenly appeared in the doorway, three other largely built men in pursue behind him. Jerry must have called the men as backup when he had heard Dean's voice rise. It was protocol, and Dr. Brant watched as they made their way towards Dean, trying to restrain him.

The doctor had seen this happen numerous times before. The crazed or enraged patient would fight back but the strength of the men would quickly prove to be too powerful. The patient would struggle at first, wildly flailing their arms and thrashing their bodies as they were held by fervent, brawny arms. Eventually the patient's eyes would glaze over as a needle appeared and the drug it held would be injected into a vein, silencing and stilling the patient almost instantaneously before he or she was carried out of the office.

Like all the others, Dean fought, but Dean fought _well_. There were no wildly flailing limbs or a thrashing head. There were no shouts of alarm or distress. There were only professionally calculated punches and kicks. A duck to the left, a jolt forward. Two of the men were down on the floor before the third could grab Dean from behind. Jerry came forward with the needle held tightly in his hand, but a look of pure shock burst on his face as Dean's feet planted themselves firmly on his chest, pushing him away and simultaneously sending the patient and his captor propelling backwards. They crashed into the wall, the man's hold slackening enough for Dean to struggle free and stand in a ready stance slightly away from the scuffling men.

Dr. Brant was utterly stunned by this turn of events and watched in bafflement and growing novelty as three of the men regained their feet. Though Dean's fighting techniques were absolutely incredible, he had lost the element of surprise, and he could not fend off the men for long. He tried to fight, bringing two of the men down again before he was overpowered and brought roughly to the floor. The drug was injected and his eyes soon glazed over and his head lolled to the side.

There were no words spoken, but the glances the men gave each other were enough to reveal their thoughts. One of them had a bleeding nose, another a dark bruise forming on the left side of his face. Jerry looked dazed himself and his eyebrows were slanted downwards in a scowl. "Let's get him out of here, boys," he ordered, a hint of loathing in his voice. "Sorry you had to see this, Dr. Brant," he said to the doctor as the men left with Dean being dragged behind them, the room now in ruins.

* * *

**To be continued.**


	3. Chapter Three

**A/N:** First eleven chapters have been updated slightly from their original posts.

* * *

**NO NEED TO REMEMBER**

**Chapter III**

_"You sure this is the place?" I stepped out of the Impala and gazed at the old building standing before me. _

_"Of course I'm sure. This is practically the only place out here." The other man, the one I called 'Sammy', exited the car as well, taking no time to stare at the building but instead heading straight to the trunk. "Now remember, there might be more than just a couple spirits in there." _

_I chuckled as I came to stand next to him, waiting for him to open the trunk. "Gary Jorelle was a busy man. They say he murdered, what, _thirty three_ people?" I shook my head as I reached into the secret compartment and took out a shotgun. "I think he's all alone in the category of super serial killer." _

_/_

The man was younger then Dr. Brant had expected. His handshake was firm and strong as he introduced himself. He claimed his name was Dr. Jacob Cass, a psychiatrist with a position in another facility located across the country. "I'm here to see one of your patients," he announced in a composed voice.

Richard raised his eyebrows. "I wasn't aware there was such an interest in one of my patients. May I ask which one?"

The man took no time in answering. "He was brought here about three weeks ago. Found in an abandoned building just outside the city. Amnesia-"

"Oh, yes," Richard suddenly cut in. "Dean." A look of surprise crossed the man's face as the name was mentioned and he quickly added, "That's what he calls himself. I have no clue where he got it from." The shock lifted and the young man swallowed, giving a nod as a tight smile reached his lips. Dr. Brant felt the need to ask him a question. "What facility did you say you were from again?"

Dr. Cass cleared his throat. "The Jerrinson's facility in Boston. I was sent here to examine Dean for a research program we're conducting. It involves studying patients with memory loss, how it affects their minds and all of that. I wouldn't want to take up your time with the details."

"Oh, it's quite all right." Dr. Brant actually finding the topic quite interesting. "Maybe we can have a chat about it later." He gave a warm smile and the man nodded his head, a little unsurely. "However, I'm afraid you won't be able to see Dean today," he stated. "But if you come back next week you might be able to sit in on one of our sessions."

The young man's eyes brightened at the offer and his smile gained a small amount of genuineness. "That would be perfect."

"All right then," said Dr. Brant. "I'll get someone to call you with the time next Monday and everything will be arranged."

With a farewell the man left the office and Dr. Brant sank into his chair with a long, heavy sigh. Three weeks and still no progress. Not a single inch forward other than the discovery that Dean had obviously taken some sort of martial arts class at some point in his life. The doctor sighed again.

He had somewhat jumped at the idea of inviting another psychiatrist into the situation – a second opinion was always helpful – and Dr. Cass had presented the perfect opportunity. He seemed a little young, maybe inexperienced, but there was something about him; a sense of understanding maybe. In any case, Dr. Brant hoped the young man would have better success with Dean. But until then, he'd have to make his own progress.

/

"Damn nut. Look at 'im in there," Jerry growled as he gazed at the TV screen. It was huddled amongst a group of multiple others, each revealing the interior of a separate cell on the third floor. He remained focused on a specific one: third row, second from the left. "How the hell did he learn to fight like that?"

"Who knows? The guys a lunatic," Kevin, a fellow security guard, flipped through a magazine in the corner of the room.

"You weren't there, Kev," Jerry stated, shaking his head. "You didn't see this guy when he was-"

"Look man, maybe he took karate as a kid or something," Kevin suddenly interrupted, sounding slightly annoyed as he tossed the magazine onto a cluttered counter. His voice held a hint of mockery as he added, "I think you're just upset he kicked the crap out of you."

Jerry swirled around, hands clenched in fists as he glared at his companion. "That guy is a _freak_," he snarled, jabbing a finger at the screen. "They're all freaks, god damn it! I don't know how I put up with this shit every day."

Despite Jerry's clearly visible bad mood, Kevin let out a laugh. "You've gotta relax, Jerr," he chuckled as he stood up, the chair creaking as his weight was lifted. "Let's go. Shift is over in five minutes and then we can go get a beer. Maybe calm your nerves a bit." This seemed to lighten up the mood. As Jerry's fists uncurled he let out a quick huff.

"All right," he agreed grudgingly as he gave the screen one last glance. "But you're buying."

/

"Am I too much to handle, Doc?" There was the signature smirk that Dr. Brant had come to know as Dean's default expression. He cast a grim glance at the chains fastened around his patient's ankles and secured to the ground, then the handcuffs locking his wrists together.

"This is only temporary, Dean. After your actions in our last session, it's mandatory that we-"

"Make sure I don't hurt anyone again." Dean finished the sentence, his smile growing more mischievous, if that were possible. "By the way, how _is_ Jerr?" He jerked his head over his shoulder, indicating the closed door which Jerry was standing behind. "I didn't hurt his feelings, did I?"

The doctor let out a low chuckle, if only to amuse the man. "I don't think so, Dean. Jerry doesn't take his job personally. But that's not what we're here to talk about, so let's get down to business."

"To defeat the huns? Sure thing, Doc, but there's nothing new to report. I don't remember where I learned to fight and I-"

It was the doctors turn to interrupt. "That's fine, Dean, but I think it may be more fitting to begin where our last session abruptly ended." He leaned forward as Dean shifted his feet, chains rattling. "You said someone was taking your thoughts. Giving you their memories."

Dean's eyebrows knitted in genuine confusion. "Who?"

"I believe that's what I asked _you_," he answered, waiting for a reply as Dean's expression remained the same, his puzzled eyes shifting to the floor. "Do you… _remember_ saying that?" the doctor finally asked after a moment of silence.

Dean's jaw clenched as he continued to stare at his feet. "Yeah…" he barely whispered, and Dr. Brant waited for more. "I remember saying it but I don't know why."

It was the doctor's turn to be confused. "You don't know why?"

"If you hadn't noticed, Doc, the wiring in my brain seems to be a little screwy at the moment." Dean's words were said in a harsh tone, and for a moment Dr. Brant feared it would lead to another violent attack, but his eyes were still glued to the floor and the doctor quickly realized that the patient's anger was directed inwards. Dean was trying to remember and was growing irritated at the lack of memories he was able to conjure up.

Dr. Brant had suspected for a while now that Dean was suffering from more than simple amnesia. There was definitely something else affecting his patient, and he believed that if he discovered the problem it would unlock the memories within Dean's mind as well.

_But it may be more difficult than it sounds…_

"It's all right if you can't remember, Dean," the doctor tried to reassure, but his words only caused his patient's jaw to clench harder along with his fists. "I don't need to remember," the man growled. "I just need to get the hell out of here."

"Dean-"

"It's been fun, Doc," Dean finally raised his eyes from the floor and gave Richard a hard stare. "But I think our time's up."

Keeping eye contact, making sure that Dean understood he was not pleased with this, Dr. Brant nodded his head. "All right, Dean." He agreed, and in a few moments Jerry had entered the room and was unlocking the chains from Dean's feet. As the patient was being escorted out the doctor suddenly remembered a certain detail he had forgotten to mention. "There will be another psychiatrist included in our next session, Dean," he announced before the man left. "His name is Dr. Cass."

Without looking back Dean's voice came with a reply. "The more the merrier," he snarled sarcastically, and then the door was shut.

* * *

**To be continued.**


	4. Chapter Four

**A/N:** First eleven chapters have been updated slightly from their original posts.

* * *

**NO NEED TO REMEMBER**

**Chapter IV**

_"You know, I think I'm officially tired of creepy old buildings." I raised the flashlight along with the blinking device I called an 'EMF meter', casting a glance in the direction of the stairwell as the device emitted an annoying static noise. "I mean, they've got this whole mildew thing going on all the time," I continued to complain as I made my way through the open entrance and into the claustrophobic space. Arriving at the foot of the steps, my companion joining me, I could barely make out where the stairs led, the area shrouded in shadows. "Not to mention all the evil spirits that happen to be floating around..." _

_Shining our lights upwards, revealing the darkened stairway, we both began to climb. With each step the wining sound emitted from the EMF detector grew in pitch. Its intensity seemed to be at full height as we arrived on the top floor. _

_"Something tells me we're not going to just find mildew in this place," I declared as I allowed my light to play along the rusty metal of the door standing before us. A large number three was painted across it in red, chipping paint. _

_"The EMF is going out of control, Dean," my partner declared, his voice at just the right tone to communicate that this was a time to be serious. "Your gun loaded?"_

_"You really give no credit to your brother's intelligence, do you Sammy?" I could not resist a last moment of joking before I placed my shoulder against the cold metal of the door and pushed. _

/

The two doctors walked side by side down the empty hallway, making small talk before they came to stop before a wooden door. "In any case, I'm glad you could make it," Dr. Brant said, placing a hand on the knob but not yet turning it. A heavy sigh escaped him. "But you have to understand that Dean is unstable. He may act out of rashness. There could very well be violence-"

The other man interrupted the doctor with a chuckle. "I know what Dean is capable of, Dr. Brant," he said reassuringly, a slight smile tugging at the edges of his lips. Richard couldn't help but furrow his brow in puzzlement, the young man's response sounding somewhat like an inside joke.

"I read the session report the day he was able to take down half of the security staff," the young man explained, and Dr. Brant nodded his head knowingly.

"Ah, yes. Let's hope _that_ never occurs again." The door suddenly swung open as the doctor twisted the handle, revealing Julia sitting in her usual spot.

"Good morning, Dr. Brant," she called cheerfully, directly on cue, and upon spotting the man behind him, she added, "It's nice to see you again, Dr. Cass." Replying with a simple greeting, the younger man waited patiently as Dr. Brant spoke with the secretary.

"I've cleared your schedule after four o'clock for Friday just like you asked me. Your wife called as well. Said that she might have to work late tonight so meatloaf is in the oven. Oh, and your session today is set for ten thirty."

The doctor glanced at his watch and nodded his head. "That gives us plenty of time to get you up to date, Dr. Cass. There are a few things I'd like to discuss before you meet Dean."

Less than a minute later, the two men were situated in Dr. Brant's office. The older doctor was shuffling through a filing cabinet, mumbling to himself as he pulled out a file. "Ah, here it is. I'm sure you've already read this but this is Dean's official file." Handing the folder to the young man, Robert Brant waited patiently behind his desk as he watched the man casually flip through it.

"The only information not included in there is the specifics to the incident which caused his amnesia," the doctor explained. "But I was able to obtain it through one of my friends who works at the local police station. Apparently the old building he was found at was part of an ongoing but classified homicide and suicide case. Turns out two people were found dead there three days earlier."

"Imagine that," Dr. Cass mumbled.

"Anyway," Robert Brant continued. "An investigating police officer found him quite by chance. The boy was in pretty bad shape. Sprained wrist, several bruised ribs-"

"Are they investigating who caused these injuries?" Dr. Cass asked, eyes still focused on the open folder in his hands but clearly not focused on reading.

"Well I don't believe they need to unless they wish to charge a broken elevator shaft with assault."

The young doctor looked up abruptly. "He fell down an elevator shaft?" he asked incredulously, confusion clear in his eyes.

Dr. Brant nodded. "Yes. The police guess he accidentally tripped. There was no sign of foul play. He must have knocked his head on impact, triggering his loss of memory. The police were questioning what he was doing there but decided to let it go for now considering his amnesia. I expect they may want to talk to him if he recovers his memory, though."

Dr. Cass turned his gaze to the floor with no comment, eyes slowly playing along the wooden oak planks. Richard Brant watched him for a moment, noticing the slight look of guilt on the young man's face. "The patient only obtained minor injuries," he announced, somehow feeling compelled to make this clear, as if it would help. "He's perfectly fine now, except for the amnesia of course."

"Of course," Dr. Cass agreed. He motioned to the door. "I expect the session will begin soon?"

Smiling, Dr. Brant nodded. "Jerry should be bringing Dean up in a moment."

/

There was a loud _clank_ as the lock was drawn back and the door slowly swung open, Jerry stepping into the entrance. "Let's go," he ordered gruffly, and Dean exited the room, two other staff members gripping his shoulders as Jerry began to attach the chains to his feet. Dean, unable to stay quiet for any amount of time, was quick to make a complaint.

"You've got to be kidding me," he said. "I feel like I'm in prison. How long until they take these things off of me?" Jerry stood up and began to handcuff the patient's wrists. Dean cringed slightly as the cold metal dug into his skin. He glared at Jerry, the guard returning his stare with a smug smile.

"You know the protocol" replied the man to Dean's left in a gravelly voice as he released the patient's shoulder. "Until you prove you're not a threat to anyone, including yourself, you'll gain your privileges back."

"And then I'll get to be imprisoned in a mental facility _without_ chains. Joy." The opposite shoulder was freed as well and Jerry began to lead Dean down the hall, the other two men heading in the opposite direction.

"You better watch the sarcasm," Jerry said as soon as they were out of the two guards' hearing range.

Dean turned his head sharply to the side. "What was that?" he asked, a sliver of annoyance in his voice. The guard walked behind Dean, close enough to immediately stop any sudden attempt of escape but leaving space enough to guarantee a reaction if the patient were to attack.

"I said sarcasm ain't appreciated here."

Dean gave a small laugh as he returned his stare ahead of him, his feet shuffling against the tiles as they rounded a corner. "Thanks for the warning, Jerr, but I happen to believe that sarcasm is _a deliberate statement with intent for humor_. I'm just trying to lighten things up around here. You could do with a smile every once in a while, you know. Frowning all the time isn't good for the complexi-"

Jerry suddenly appeared to Dean's side, grabbing the man by the front of his shirt and slamming him into the wall. Scowling, the guard shoved Dean again before he growled, "I never liked smart asses either."

Released from the hold, Dean was silent as he calmly fixed his shirt the best he could with his shackled hands, a smile still on his lips. Eyes fuming, Jerry's face deepened to another shade of red, but he somehow resisted smacking the smile off of Dean's face. Instead, he grabbed the patient's shoulder and pushed him forward. "You're the one in chains," he commented with a mocking tone. "So you better watch out who you piss off around here."

"That a threat, Jerr?" Dean asked, amusement mingling with his words.

"Nope," the guard lied. "Just some friendly advice."

Despite Dean's multiple attempts at provoking the staff member further, the duo arrived at Dr. Brant's office in silence. As the door opened, the secretary's welcoming smile immediately fell while casting a nervous glance towards Dean.

"Mornin', Julia," Jerry greeted before the two men found themselves standing before the partially open entrance of the doctor's office. "You be a good boy now," the guard hissed derisively, and then led the patient in.

/

Upon entering the spacious office, Dean stared at the one unfamiliar occupant within its walls. He was sitting across the desk from Dr. Brant, turning around and standing up as he heard their arrival. A strange sense overcame Dean as he stared, a feeling he could hardly explain.

Up until that point Dean had made it a purpose to isolate himself from the other residents of the facility, always making sure no unwanted emotions were displayed within his expression. Even Dr. Brant had registered the inability to gain Dean's trust, but now something had changed.

This newcomer almost seemed _familiar_ and Dean could not help but wonder if he somehow knew him. However, the patient chose not to trust any foreign feeling, and after only a single moment of expressed puzzlement, Dean quickly transformed it into a challenging smile, sizing up the newcomer.

He was tall, maybe having a few inches on Dean, and although it wasn't possible to discern if there were any muscles hidden beneath his dark grey suit, there was no doubt that his strength could easily be underestimated. His long shaggy hair would have hung slightly in front of his eyes if it had not been brushed to the side, and he held an air of intelligence around him that was somewhat intimidating. Dean figured this must be Dr. Cass, recalling Dr. Brant's announcement the previous session.

Almost as if answering the patient's unasked question, Richard Brant acknowledged their entry and said, "Dean, this is Dr. Cass, the other psychiatrist I told you about."

"Sam Cass." The newcomer quickly added. "You can- You can call me Sam."

Casting the new psychiatrist a strange glance, Dean simply shrugged dismissively. "Sammy it is, then."

* * *

**To be continued.**


	5. Chapter Five

**A/N:** First eleven chapters have been updated slightly from their original posts.

* * *

**NO NEED TO REMEMBER**

**Chapter V**

_The third floor did not differ a great deal from the staircase. Decaying wooden boards nailed across the large windows of the hallway allowed a limited amount of moonlight to enter the building. This lack of light caused the long, narrow hall to be almost as dark as the stairway, and somehow slightly colder. _

_ "That's weird…" I mumbled I he stared down at the EMF meter clutched in my hand. The device was completely silent, emitting not a flicker or flash of light. "How the hell does _that_ happen?" I asked my brother as Sam came to stand next to me, also having noticed the sudden stillness of the machine. _

_ "Maybe it broke." Sam offered, receiving an offended glare from me in return. "Broke?" I replied. "No way man. I told you, I built this thing myself!"_

_ "Exactly," Sam stated, passing me and making his way down the hallway. I stood for a moment, biting back an insult, before following him._

_ "So where did these 'suicides' happen exactly?" I inquired. _

_ "Well, the police report said two bodies were found on the third floor, room 395. They found a shotgun between the victims, male and female, with both their prints on it. Cops are ruling it as a double suicide."_

_ "Of course they are," I growled. "Would it kill 'em to search a little deeper? Maybe get something done instead of leaving everything behind for us to deal with?"_

_ "You can't blame them Dean. Not a lot of people know what we know."_

_ "That's because not a lot of people _are_ what we are," I mumbled under my breath. There was a short silence as we continued walking, swinging our flashlights around to search for the destined room number. "So you think the spirit of Gary Jorelle is responsible for the deaths?" I asked, though I already knew the answer._

_ "Makes sense, doesn't it?" Sam answered. "I mean, this is the building where he killed his victims. No reported deaths here until the building was labeled for demolishing. There's definitely a connection." _

_ The conversation came to an abrupt halt as we came to the end of the hall. Here the last door stood opposite the partly ajar entrance of a broken elevator. _

/

"Yah, but _Back In Black_ is a classic," Dean reasoned. "It may not be their best song but it's a sin not to crank up the speakers when it plays."

Dr. Brant watched in bafflement and slight amusement as the two men argued, shaking his head as he wondered how this had happened. The most he had gained from his sessions with Dean had been a few sentences, most of them quite impersonal. Now he was witnessing the same unresponsive patient carry on a complete conversation with this new doctor. It was absolutely puzzling.

And completely off topic. Richard Brant cleared his throat loudly, causing the two men to look at him and halt their discussion of classic rock. "I take it you're both big fans of this rock music," the doctor chuckled.

Dr. Cass hung his head in a gesture of embarrassment after realizing how he had been so easily carried away by the topic. He tried to mumble an explanation. "I, uh, have a brother who listens to it all the time."

"And I guess I have to be a fan," Dean grinned. "I mean, Sammy here mentions Metallica and suddenly I'm recalling Rudy Sarzo joining _Blue Oyster Cult_ and the name of every album released by _Nazarth_. I have no clue where it's all coming from."

"You're remembering fragments of your life, Dean." Dr. Brant explained. "It's good progress."

"I'm just glad I'm not remembering anymore shotguns, specifically those pointed in my direction."

Sam, as he had insisted on being called, claiming it was a childhood nickname he had become accustomed to, glanced towards Dr. Brant who nodded his head, willing the young doctor to question Dean. "This shotgun," the man began. "What did it look like?"

"Well, from what I remember…" Dean's eyebrows cut downward as he tried to recall. "It looked like a J Stevens Model 58A bolt action shotgun with a tapered barrel."

Dr. Brant stared at the patient with a stunned expression. "What did you say?"

With a similarly mystified look, Dean glanced at the older man. "I have no idea how I knew that," he stated, his tone genuine. "It was exactly like the classic rock. I just… I just _knew_. I mean, tapered barrel, bolt action… I know what it all is."

"Dean, this could be a very important sign towards you recovering your memory," the doctor claimed as he sat forward in his chair. "Recalling specific facts you have learnt means you are beginning to remember more. Maybe Dr. Cass mentioning Metallica triggered something within you. Maybe that's all you needed. A trigger that helped you recollect your knowledge of guns, if you'll excuse the pun." Clasping his hands, the doctor stared seriously at the patient. "The thing is, Dean, you may very well begin to experience much more memories in the near future. It is even possible that you might remember _everything_ in the next few weeks, though rationality is needed in such hopes."

"Hold on there, doc," Dean said, raising his hands slightly and causing the chains hanging from his wrists to clink noisily. "Everything I've remembered so far has been completely useless. So I listen to a lot of classic rock and maybe I have a hard on for guns. It still doesn't explain why I remember a shotgun aimed at my head or how I ended up in this joint."

"That's true," Sam suddenly said, verbally joining the conversation. "But in most cases of amnesia the simple stuff comes first; things that you've learnt, facts that you know. Then the experiences come; memories, recollections. This is just the beginning of the process of remembering."

There was something strange in the way the young doctor said this. It was as if there was hope in his words that extended further than that displayed by Dr. Brant. Dean furrowed his brow. "Whatever. Listen, doc, I think I've done enough remembering for today. How about you let me get some lunch?" He leaned back in his chair. "I hear they're serving rat soufflé today."

/

"Here's your lunch, pretty boy." The food tray was pushed violently into the slot and a loud clatter was heard as it hit the floor, multiple sounds of laughter emitting from behind the door. Dean sat cross-legged on his bed, back leaning against the wall as he stared dryly at the food splattered across the tiles. He was somewhat glad he wouldn't have to eat the nauseating crap they called 'food' here, but that did not stop the rise of anger he felt as he listened to the guards' mirth.

The slot opened again and Jerry's crinkled eyes appeared. Dean did not react, unmoving from his sitting position as he matched the guard's amused stare with an empty one of his own. "Aren't you going to eat your lunch, Dean?" the man asked in an over exaggerated motherly voice, resulting in a chorus of hoots from the other men with him. "You wouldn't want it to go cold now, would you?"

Dean remained silent although numerous choice words were waiting to burst out, most of them unmannerly yet appropriate. Instead of giving into his irritation he simply sat there, head resting against the wall as he stared at Jerry's dark blue eyes. "Come on, Dean," the guard persisted as his pals continued to express their amusement in an increasingly loud manner. "What's the matter? I bet you eat off the floor all the time."

Dean jerked his head forward, eye contact still intact. Jerry laughed. "No smartass comeback now, huh?" he smirked.

_Thud._

The guard's eyebrows shot up for a moment in an expression of surprise as the Dean's head collided with the wall behind him, but then his eyes narrowed. "What the hell ar-"

_Thud_.

He did it again. Sliding his head forward, he sent it flying backwards, causing it to collide solidly with the wall. Dean did not blink as he did this, maintaining the same blank expression on his face.

_Thud._

"Stop that!" Jerry shouted from behind the door.

_Thud_.

"You little-" Jerry punched the door, hard, but Dean did not stop. In response he slammed his head for a fifth time.

_Thud._

"Jerry, open the door," another voice demanded urgently. "What is he doing in there?"

_Thud._

The slot closed shut and there was the familiar _clank_ as the door opened and swung inward. Jerry appeared with three other guards behind him.

_Thud._

"I said stop that!" Jerry shouted, stomping angrily towards the bed. He was about to reach out and grab him when Dean suddenly sprung into action, shooting his leg out where it connected firmly with the guard's gut. The man was sent flying backward by the unexpected blow, falling directly upon the plastic tray and the food that surrounded it.

The guard laid there for a moment in shock, but quickly recovered and tried to clumsily scramble to his feet, slipping upon a pile of potatoes as he did so. He faced dean, who was sitting cross-legged on the bed once more, hands clasped before him with a grin from ear to ear. "You _son of a bitch!_" the guard roared, and despite the efforts made by his companions to hold him back, the large man sprung forward in rage.

Dean was prepared for this reaction but had miscalculated the man's surprising speed. Before he could untangle his feet and jump off of the bed the guard was upon him, fist slamming into his face as he was knocked to the side. Dean could hear alarmed shouts from the other men as they tried to pull Jerry off of him but the guard was clearly furious. Dean took another blow to his head before two large hands grabbed his shirt and pulled him upwards. He could barely see anything as everything moved so quickly, and then his head was slammed backwards into the wall. The collision was ten times harder than when he had done the same thing himself, and dark blotches immediately obscured his vision.

"Why stop now, Dean?" Jerry snarled as he smashed his head into the wall for a second time. The other guards were still trying fervently to pull him back but rage seemed to drive him on. "Why stop now?" He was shouting the words now as Dean felt something wet and warm at the back of his head.

"WHY STOP NOW?"

The adrenaline appeared to rush out of the guard's body as Jerry allowed hands to pry his own from Dean. "What the _hell_ is the matter with you?" Kevin hissed in Jerry's face as he was pulled to the far end of the room, eyes still watching Dean. Dean sluggishly reached a hand behind him to feel the gash at the back of his head, and the sight made Jerry smile.

"He deserved it," the guard spat as he was released. There was the sound of footsteps rushing down the hall and Dr. Brant suddenly appeared in the doorway. The expression on the doctor's face was that of concern and anger. "What is going on here?" the old man demanded to know as he anxiously faced the four guards. "What are you doing?" He glanced at Dean, and upon seeing him dazedly staring at the bright red blood covering his fingers, he gasped.

"What did you do to this patient?" he shouted at the guards. Jerry swallowed hard, probably suddenly realizing the severity of his actions. Dr. Brant was fuming with anger, and what Jerry had done was obviously illegal and could see him charged with assault.

The guard remained silent when Kevin stepped forward. "The patient was banging his head repeatedly against the wall," the man stated calmly. "We opened the door to stop him from hurting himself."

Dr. Brant stared steadily at the men for a moment before asking, "What were all of you doing here? You're supposed to be on _separate_ rounds."

Kevin faltered for a moment but then answered. "The three of us," he gestured to himself and the other two guards standing beside Jerry. "Were on our way out when we heard Jerry here shouting, and came to see what the problem was."

"And you say the patient was repeatedly hitting his head against the wall." The doctor said this as more of a statement than a question.

"Yeah, doc," Jerry said, finally finding his voice. "I told 'im to stop but he just wouldn't, so I opened the cell up-"

"To _forcibly_ stop him?" the doctor questioned coldly. "I don't suppose he punched himself in the face as well?"

"Well… that's my job, doc." Jerry replied. "I mean, I didn't punch him. I… In cases where the patient may cause themselves harm we have to stop them by any means necessary."

"Jerry, why, may I ask, are your knuckles bleeding?" The doctor was referring to the cuts on Jerry's right hand that had split open when he had punched Dean's face.

"I, uh-"

"He's a lying bastard, that's why." All five heads turned towards the open entrance where Dean was sitting, eyebrows cut downward in a scowl. He seemed to be fully recovered from the daze he had found himself in only moments earlier. "Jerry here decided he wanted to bash a hole in the wall with my head. His pals didn't think it was such a bad idea either."

"You fucking liar, I-"

"Jerry!" Dr. Brant boomed as he held out a hand to stop the infuriated guard from leaping forward and tackling Dean. "_Did_ you or _did_ _you_ _not_ cause harm to this patient?"

"I didn't touch 'im!"

"Yah right," sneered Dean. "Just tell the good doctor the truth, Jerr. Tell him what a coward you are."

"I swear to God I'm going to-"

"Both of you stop this right now!" shouted Richard Brant, and the two men obeyed silently. The doctor looked at Dean, his eyes lingering on the bruise that was probably becoming clearer on his right cheek bone, and then turned to the guard once more.

"Jerry, I don't believe you are telling the truth. Therefore, I believe it would be appropriate for this incident to be thoroughly investigated. If there are any findings that prove you guilty of assault of a patient you will be immediately removed from your position and charged with the according crime. Do you understand?"

Jerry was silent as he stared hard at Dean, but then answered with an acknowledging grunt. "Yah, doc, I understand."

"Good, and that goes for _all_ of you. Now I'm afraid I have to call the police. I must report this incident."

"Whatever you have to do doc, just do it," Jerry growled, and Dean could swear the look in the guard's eyes had transformed from anger into something so much deeper. "Whatever you have to do…"

* * *

**To be continued.**


	6. Chapter Six

**A/N:** First eleven chapters have been updated slightly from their original posts.

* * *

**NO NEED TO REMEMBER**

**Chapter VI**

_The door opened easily enough, swinging inwards with a low groan. I stood in the entranceway as we shone our flashlights inward, illuminating the walls of the dark, vacant room. On the tiled floor there still remained the investigative tools of the police surrounding the splattered red that covered one area of the floor. Sam grimaced as his beam of light played along the dark stains. _

_ "I'm guessing this is the right room," I darkly joked as I stepped forward. My boots made a hollow echo as they connected with the floor, the individual sound of each step disappearing into the darkness. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the EMF meter, banging it against my flashlight to gain a response. "I swear to god…" I sighed in defeat. "So we're positive that the angry spirit of Gary Jorelle was the one who killed these two people?"_

_"Not exactly," was Sam's hesitant response. _

_I gave him a confused look as I turned around to face him._ _"I thought you said it made sense." _

_Sam gnawed on his bottom lip as he seemed to be considering something. "It's possible, but... He didn't shoot his victims."_

_"Dude, you were so sure before. Are you telling me we might not even be dealing with the ghost of Jorelle?" _

_"The police never determined his choice of weapon but all his victims were usually killed by a blow to the head. I mean, it could be one of _them_-" He pointed to red stain on the floor. "-turned angry spirit after being murdered." He hesitated. "Or it might not even be supernatural..."_

_"Are you _kidding_ me? You dragged me all the way out here for a case that might not even be related to what we do? Damn it, Sam... You told me Gary Jorelle had been behind this!"_

_"I never said that!" Sam defended. "I said I _think_ it could be him."_

_"Whatever man," I sighed angrily. "Let's just see what we can find." I turned around again, shaking my head. Whether it was in reaction to the discovery that this could all be for nothing or to the broken EMF I still held in my hand, I didn't know._

_"Dean." The gravity in Sam's voice caused me to immediately look over my shoulder, finding my brother staring past me. _

_ "What?" _

_ Sam motioned with his head to turn back around and I did so cautiously, now looking at the spot where the beam of his flashlight ended. There, in the dim light moving with the thousands of dust particles that slowly tumbled across it, was a shotgun, propped against the wall. _

_ "Sam, don't cops usually take evidence like that with them?" I asked warily as I kept my eyes on the gun. Sam walked past me and cautiously made his way towards the weapon. "Maybe it's not the same shotgun the police found," he suggested, crouching beside it. He glanced over at me before he reached out a hand and stroked a finger down the gun. _

_ "Looks like a… J Stevens Model 58A bolt action shotgun with a tapered barrel," he stated, placing his flashlight on the ground. Gripping the weapon with both hands, he stood up, turning it over to examine the other side. "But who left it here?"_

_ I kept my flashlight on my brother. "Sam?" _

_ "Yah?"_

_ "The dust stopped falling."_

_ Sam pried his eyes from the shotgun and stared at me with a puzzled look. "What?"_

_ "The dust in the beam of the flashlight," I tried to explain. "It stopped falling. Everything's so…" I looked around uncomfortably. "…still."_

_ The temperature in the room suddenly plummeted. I watched in alarm as my breath evaporated before me in a puff of white fog. "Oh shit," I whispered, just before the shotgun held firmly in Sam's grip was ripped from his hold and was swung swiftly across the room. We both jumped as the silence was suddenly disrupted by the loud _clunk_ of the weapon hitting the wall and then falling to the ground in a clatter. As the stillness was quickly restored, we waited tensely for something to happen – anything – but the gun remained where it had fallen._

_ "Please tell me that was your freaky telekinesis powers, Sammy," I implored._

_ "I'm afraid not," he replied, his voice soft as he contemplated what had just happened._

Thud.

_ The sound came from behind us and we both spun quickly around. The blank, empty wall was all that met us. _

Thud.

_ The noise was coming from directly in front of us yet there was nothing to be seen. I glanced hopelessly at my EMF meter before pocketing it and bringing my own gun up to point directly at the spot in which the sound seemed to originate. _

Thud.

_ "What's happening, Dean?"_

Thud.

_ "I have no freakin' clue."_

Thud.

_ We stood in the space, unsure of what to do, but suddenly there was another noise that sounded similar to the repetitive _thuds_. This time the sound came from beside me, resounding through the room and followed by a painful grunt. I watched in alarm as Sam collapsed to the ground beside me. _

_ "Sam!" I shouted as I started to rush to his side. However, a thin object caught the corner of my eye and I swiveled my head around to come face to face with the barrel of a loaded shotgun. It was the same gun we had foolishly turned our backs to when distracted by the strange thudding noise, and I watched in horrid slow motion as its trigger slowly moved inwards, squeezed by an invisible force. _

/

"What's his name?" Sam asked, his voice falling a little lower than usual.

"Dr. Cass, I can assure you that-"

"_What is his name?_" he demanded, this time his voice dangerously low.

"Dr. Cass!" Robert Brant increased the volume of his own voice to put a stop to the man's odd behaviour. "I can _assure you_ that the necessary steps have been taken and that all matters have been settled. The name of the man is not important. What _is _important is that Dean is fine and that he has only suffered minor bruises from the incident"

Sam bowed his head, maybe to hide the embarrassment he felt for raising his voice at the doctor or to disguise the anger still etched into his features. "The guard was fired, right?" he questioned as he raised his head once more.

"Yes, I believe he was." The doctor rubbed his glasses with the end of his shirt, shaking his head slightly as he did so. "I just don't understand. Nothing like this has ever happened before."

"Maybe Dean has that affect on people," Sam reasoned. "He can bring them to their limits and then push them all the way off the cliff by simply having a conversation with them."

Richard chuckled at this reasoning, recalling his first session with Dean and the way he had yelled at a patient for the very first time. "Yes, I believe he does have that affect." He sighed before continuing. "I wanted to inform you that your services are no longer required, Dr. Cass."

Sam looked at the man, clearly confused. "I-I don't understand."

"It's nothing personal. I tried my hardest to convince the board that you would be beneficial in aiding Dean further, but they seemed to think that Dean is an extremely delicate case. What, with all the investigation around him and now this incident, they have decided that they want a limited amount of outside contact. I'm afraid you cannot continue your studies here."

Sam was silent for a moment. He opened his mouth as if to say something but then closed it once more.

"I'm sorry Dr. Cass," Richard apologized, his words genuine. "I'd have it any other way, but I can promise you that I will tell you the results when this is all over."

"Of course," Sam replied, a thin smile on his lips. "Thank you for allowing me this much already. I really appreciate it." The two men stood up and shook hands, both regretful of the decision that had been made. And then with no further conversation, Dr. Cass left the office.

/

"I see you are no longer in the company of restraints," Dr. Brant pointed out.

Dean looked down at his unchained hands as he stretched his legs, the long limbs moving freely. The patient raised his head to face the doctor and grinned. "Nope."

The doctor chuckled at the man beaming like a child before him. "How are you feeling, Dean?" he asked.

"Well, the pain meds did their job if that's what you're asking," he replied, his smile gone.

The doctor frowned. "Well, not exactly, but…"

"I see you are no longer in the company of Dr. Cass," interrupted Dean, mimicking the doctor as he looked around the room, perhaps expecting the young man to be hiding behind the filing cabinet.

Richard cleared his throat. "Yes, well… there were complications concerning his involvement in your case."

"Ah," Dean stated knowingly as he nodded his head. "The less the merrier then, I guess."

Trying to change the topic, Richard shifted in his chair before asking, "Do you remember anything new?"

Dean's expression was contemplative. "Well, between getting my head smashed in and being doped up on pain killers, I can't really say."

"Dean, what have we discussed about sarcasm?" Richard prodded. Dean only grunted in response. "I'd like to try something new today," the doctor announced. "It's called hypnotism."

"Hypnotism?" Dean sneered. "Are you kidding me?"

"It _has_ been proven to work before, Dean," Richard countered, and then stood up and walked over to the wall where the light switch was located. Flicking it off, the room was cast in a dim, grayish light that filtered in from the multiple windows lining the space. Dr. Brant sat back in his chair, an attentive expression on his face.

Dean looked like he was about to argue or complain but seemed to give in to the bizarre idea. "All right. If you really think hypnotizing me will work, then go straight ahead, Doc. Just don't try anything funny. No making me believe I'm a six-year-old girl or anything."

The doctor chuckled. "Just relax and close your eyes," he commanded. Dean obeyed with slight reluctance and let out a long, impatient sigh. "Relax, Dean. This won't work if you don't at least try." He said nothing in response and the doctor took this as a good sign to begin.

"All right, now I want you to listen to my voice. Listen to what it is telling you…"

/

Sam pounded the wall with his fist, leaving a shallow dent in the chipping paint. He stared at the indentation while his mind went over all that had happened. Everything since the day he had awoken in that godforsaken building, a killer headache throbbing in his ears and his brother nowhere to be seen.

He had scoured the entire building, or so he had believed. He never once thought of looking down the elevator shaft. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have let his brother be taken away to a mental facility? Hell, Dean was probably the saneness person he knew, besides his occasional ludicrous ideas.

Hours of panic induced searching had followed that day. Sam had called every contact he knew to shed some light on Dean's whereabouts. If only he had known his brother had still been within the building, then they wouldn't have found themselves in this mess.

His brother was said to be suffering from amnesia, of all things. He hadn't even recognized Sam. He knew it wasn't Dean's fault, but he still felt a twinge of sadness every time he thought himself a stranger to his brother.

Something wasn't entirely right, however. Besides the amnesia, Dean wasn't the same. He had suspected this after reading Dr. Brant's reports. He couldn't quite put his finger on what had changed, but there _was_ a difference. Maybe it had been brought upon by the amnesia, but he suspected something larger, more sinister. He just needed time to discover what it was.

_I was thinking of trying a new method concerning Dean's amnesia. Hypnosis._

Dr. Brant's words echoed through his head and he knew what he had to do. He had to get Dean out of that institute for starters, an endeavor he had been planning for the past few weeks but found trickier than he had first anticipated, especially now that he was no longer able to sit in on Dean's sessions. Would Dean believe him if he was told the truth about who he was? Would he accept his life? Maybe this was a chance for Dean to forget about his awful past and to focus on a future. Maybe Sam was being selfish in laying that burden on his brother's shoulders again when it could so easily be shrugged off.

Either way, he couldn't just let Dean rot in there. Whether he told him the truth and prayed he remembered or made up a convincing lie, he would get him out. He just needed somewhere to begin… Some place to start unraveling the mystery that was his brother.

* * *

**To be continued.**


	7. Chapter Seven

**A/N:** First eleven chapters have been updated slightly from their original posts.

* * *

**NO NEED TO REMEMBER**

**Chapter VII**

_ I stared at death. Death stared back. I wasn't about to shut my eyes and wait for the inevitable, but it came anyway. The gaping barrel of the shotgun was cloaked in shadow as the trigger reached its limit, sending a loud _click_ reverberating through the dark room. The gun was empty. _

_ I almost laughed with relief. "That the best you got, Casper?" I asked tauntingly as I raised my own gun, aiming at the blank space behind the shotgun and letting fire. Rock salt exploded from the weapon, blasting through a suddenly highlighted figure of a human being standing before me. _

_ I barely had time to inspect the ghostly form before it disappeared, the shotgun falling to the floor. I couldn't even decipher if it was male or female, but I didn't dwell on the matter for long. Turning my attention to my brother, I knelt beside his unconscious body sprawled across the tiled floor. _

_ There was a large lump on the back of Sam's head but nothing incredibly serious, the worst scenario being a mild concussion. However, I didn't believe Sam would be waking up anytime soon to help me rid the world of yet another pissed off spirit. _

_ Rising to my feet, I looked around the room, hopelessly wondering if I would catch a glimpse of the invisible apparition. "Come on you son of a bitch!" I called out to the emptiness, my voice echoing back at me. "Where are you?" _

_ As if in reply, I felt an exploding pain at the back of my head as something hard collided with it. I was sent stumbling forward but the blow had not been hard enough to render me unconscious. _

_ Clumsily swinging around, I was able to spot the familiar shotgun levitating in the air before it clattered to the floor, leaving me alone in the stillness once more. I reached behind me and winced as my fingers touched the tender bruising on my scalp, my loaded gun held firmly in my other hand. Cursing under my breath, I waited for the shotgun to rise again or the ghost to make an appearance. _

_ I needed only to wait a few seconds before the gun came zipping towards me. I hadn't expected the speed, and as the force collided with my chest I was sent flying backwards where I landed in a heap across the room. Struggling to gain a sitting position, I realized I was positioned upon the large bloodstain splashed across the tiles and quickly jumped to my feet. _

_ Almost immediately afterwards, the air around me plunged further, to a temperature far below zero. I frantically searched the room for a sign of the spirit, wanting nothing more than to blast it with another round of rock salt, but then suddenly realized that my gun had been knocked from my grasp by the fall, and now lay five feet in front of me. I made to dive for it but was suddenly knocked back by a gust of icy wind. The air in my lungs seemed to freeze as I felt the very blood in my veins run cold. I tried to call out but my throat burned with frost, every hair on my body standing on end. _

_ Then the feeling was gone as quickly as it had come and I immediately began to feel warmer, the cold disappearing. However, it felt as if the chill was vanishing inwards, settling within me, and as my breath returned and I was able to breathe once more, I suddenly felt a disturbing presence inside of me. Then the agony came. _

/

The static on the recorder was suddenly interrupted by a voice.

_What do you see?_

Sam recognized it as belonging to Dr. Brant. The voice answering this simple question was unmistakably Dean's, though it sounded slightly different; detached.

_Nothing._

More static.

_You must see something. _

_I see blackness._

_ I want you to imagine a light, Dean. A pinprick of light in your vision that slowly grows larger and larger until everything is visible. _

There was only the steady, deep breathing of his brother before the doctor's voice came once more,

_What do you see now?_

_It's everywhere._

Dean sounded scared.

_What is Dean? What's everywhere?_

_ The fire. It's surrounding me!_

There was the sound of a shuffle and then Dr. Brant's strong, commanding voice.

_Get away from it Dean. Get away from the fire and tell me what you see._

_ I can't… It's everywhere and the blackness… it- it's waiting for me on the other side. I can't get away! I-_

_ But you must, Dean. Try._

A tiny whimper escaped from the recorder and Sam cringed, knowing all too well what his brother was experiencing. Understanding perfectly where it was all coming from, but not wanting to comprehend that his brother was tortured by the fire and the darkness as well. He had always thought Dean was above it all. He had been wrong.

_It's gone._

Dean's voice had grown deeper, lower.

_The fire is gone? Is the blackness back?_

_ No. _

_ What do you see then?_

_ I see… I see them. _

_ Who? Who do you see?_

Sam leaned closer in his chair, waiting to hear his brother's response.

_They want me to help them. I can't. They're angry. I don't know how to help them._

_ Who are these people, Dean?_

_I don't know them. They don't know me. _

_Then why are they here?_

_ Because _he's_ here._

_ Who?_

A loud laugh cut through the static. Sam had never heard his brother laugh like that before. It sounded hard, almost cruel.

_Dean, I want you to tell me who this man is._

_ Oh, he's no man. He's a monster. We're all monsters. Every single one of us is capable of what he did. Give me that shotgun and I'll do the same. _

A shiver ran down Sam's spine at his brother's words.

_You'll do what, Dean?_

_ I'll end him._

The harsh laugher ensued once more before it was abruptly cut off by a soft clicking sound as the recorder automatically began to rewind itself. Sam sighed and leaned back in his chair, staring at the water stained ceiling above him. It was the third time he had listened to the tape after having stolen it from Dr. Brant's office that night. He felt somewhat bad for the deed but knew it had been necessary.

Now, as he sat within the small, cramped motel room, he knew he had come one step closer to solving this mystery. He was trying desperately to put together the pieces; the events that had occurred while he had been unconscious, knocked out by an unknown object. Now he may have some idea, because he knew one thing for sure. Something that just made things appear a lot worse than he could have ever imagined

That wasn't his brother speaking on the recorder.

_/_

Dean couldn't help but replay the session over and over again in his head, torturing his sleepless mind as he did so. He would no longer scoff at the idea of hypnotism, for it had seemed to work on his chaotic mentality, but things had not grown much clearer. If anything, his past had become even more muddled than before. There just seemed to be no grip, no memory, in which he could hold onto and begin to make the daunting climb to recollection. It was as if a lock had been placed on his mental memoirs and he had no clue where to find the key. He somehow got the feeling that someone was keeping it from him.

Those things he had said, the words he had heard spoken in his own unmistakable voice on the recorder, had slightly unnerved him. He didn't even remember saying those things or what he had been talking about to begin with. Who was this man he spoke of, or those he referred to as _they_? How was he supposed to help these people if he didn't even know them?

It was all very confusing and he felt as if he would begin to truly lose his sanity if he continued to dwell on it any longer. Therefore, as he turned onto his stomach on top of the thin, uncomfortable bed he was lying on - believing he was in prison rather than in a place where he was supposed to feel _cared for _– he shut his eyes and tried to make his mind go blank.

But that seemed almost an impossible feat as the well-known _clank_ that signalized his cell door was now unlocked rang through his ears. He remained unmoving, wondering who could possibly want to discuss his feelings at this time of night, as he listened to the door swinging open and soft footsteps entering the room. Then there was a loud whisper.

"Dean? _Dean_!"

He couldn't recognize the voice but turned over and propped himself on his elbows anyway. "What the… What the hell are _you_ doing here-" he began to ask but was cut off immediately by a harsh shushing from the figure in the doorway.

"Whisper. Please. The guards will hear."

This made Dean want to talk louder, for it usually wasn't good when that last sentence, _the guards will hear_, was spoken by a late night intruder. He narrowed his eyes but decided to see what this was all about before he made any decisions. Who knew, maybe this guy was trying to break him out, something much more useful than sitting around chatting about topics involving his mental stability.

The man walked further into the space. "There's a camera in here, yah know," Dean informed him in a monotone voice, but Sam didn't look too troubled.

"Yah, I know. Listen, I'm going to tell you something and you might not believe me but it's the truth, all right?"

Dean looked at the young doctor with wary eyes. He was beginning to the think that maybe this institution was in need of one more patient as he slowly nodded his head. He was thinking of making a dash for the door, now that the opportunity presented itself to him so beautifully, but decided against it. Curiosity had won over and he prepared himself to receive Sam's secret.

What came next was spoken in a rush of words, leaving Dean to wonder if he had heard properly at all.

"'I know who you are. Your name is Dean Winchester. You own a black 1967 Chevy Impala which is your pride and joy, you love picking up any pretty girl you come into contact with, and you're wanted by the police in St. Louis. You got amnesia while you were investigating a haunting at the old building you were found at, because that's your job. You're a hunter. You hunt the supernatural, which yes, really does exist, and yes, is _very_ real. You were brought up as a hunter by your father, John Winchester, ever since your mom was killed by a demon when you were only a kid. You're currently searching for your dad, who went missing a little less than a year ago."

There was a short silence in which Dean simply stared at the man before him, eyes wide and mouth hanging slightly open.

"Oh, and I'm your brother.

* * *

**To be continued.**


	8. Chapter Eight

**A/N:** First eleven chapters have been updated slightly from their original posts.

* * *

**NO NEED TO REMEMBER**

**Chapter VIII**

"Okay man, look," Dean finally said while trying fiercely to wipe the shocked expression from his face. He obviously thought Sam was some sort of nut job. "I have no clue what you're talking about, so maybe you should just walk out the door and, you know, get yourself some help. I mean, this is the best place to be for that sort of crap, right?" Dean made a sorry attempt at a laugh as he was probably wondering how unstable Sam really was.

Sam sighed in frustration, which Dean seemed to misinterpret as anger as the amnesic man unconsciously shifted to a position that would allow him to defend himself better if anything rash should happen. He was now sitting up, legs ready to swing over the bed if they were required to, a guarded look in his eyes.

This wasn't happening the way Sam had planned. Holding out his hands in a gesture of amity, he said, "I'm telling you the truth, Dean."

"Oh, so you're saying I'm like some sort of freak in a messed up family who goes around chasing ghosts?" Dean asked sarcastically. "You expect me to believe that crap?"

Sam considered saying yes but decided against it. "Come on, dude. We don't have time for this. I figured you wouldn't believe me, but we've got to leave _now_."

Sam wasn't sure if this was the best thing to say considering the cynical expression his brother was currently wearing, but it seemed to have some affect as Dean faltered. "Wait," he said quietly, less doubt in his voice. "Leave? You mean you're busting me out?"

_Of course I'm busting you out! _Sam wanted to scream. _You're my brother, and there's no freakin' way I'm going to leave you here, but if you'd stop making things so _hard_ for me than maybe we could _both_ escape without ending up in jail. _ Instead he decided on_, _"Yah man, look, there's something seriously wrong with you."

His original words might have faired better, for it seemed whatever slight feelings of trust Dean had felt towards Sam flew out the window as soon as that sentence left his mouth. Dean was immediately on guard, eyes narrowed at his brother as he acidly replied, "I think I've been told that more times than I could care."

"'I didn't mean it that way," Sam tried to explain as he glanced over his shoulder to the open door and the dimly lit hallway. They didn't have much time, so he tried to rephrase his words. "Nothing's wrong with you _mentally_." Again he could kick himself for his stupidity. Everything he wanted to say seemed to be coming out wrong, and he could see that his chances of convincing Dean that he wasn't some sort of whack job were becoming slim to none.

"Oh, so what?" Dean's voice was angry now. "I got a ghost up my ass or something?"

Sam would have laughed at the remark if the situation had not been so dire. Considering Sam's estimation was correct, Dean's stark comment was pretty close to the truth. "Dean, I'll explain it all later, okay? But as of this moment, we _really_ need to move."

The nightly rounds would be made soon and Sam predicted the guard would be here in only mere minutes. They needed to go _now _if they had any hope of sneaking out of the building unseen. Even the loops he had placed on the few specific cameras in the security room would need to be removed soon or else the guard on duty might become considerably suspicious.

"I'm not going anywhere with your weirdo ass," Dean said as he sat straight on the bed and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked like a little kid pouting over bath time.

Sam knew now that telling Dean the truth had been a big mistake. He was still adjusting to the fact that his brother had amnesia, somehow forgetting that Dean was not completely _there._ He had simply had this _stupid_ idea that his older brother would have remembered everything if he was told about his past. Now he knew differently.

But Dean _had_ to remember. It was their only chance, because the clock was ticking and if Dean refused to leave with him than Sam could not risk his brother telling Dr. Brant or anyone else about this little visit. It would only cause more problems until the point came when he would never be able to break his brother out of the institution.

Sam was growing desperate. "Come on man. It's me, Sam. I'm your brother. Just _try_," he pleaded. "Try to remember."

/

Kevin sighed as he glanced at his watch. It was time to make the nightly rounds. He played over the idea of skipping it, but that thought was quickly banished from his mind in a rare bout of conscience. _My supervisor would have my ass if she found out_. Therefore, standing up with a grunt of effort, he made his way out of the tiny security office and began to walk down the hall, the sounds of the baseball game he had been watching slowly fading and being replaced by his echoing footsteps.

If you asked him, which no one ever did, Kevin thought his job was somewhat of a joke. Watching a bunch of crazies wasn't exactly an ideal career, but at least the pay was somewhat decent. All he had to do was count down his days to retirement and it kept him content for at least a little while. During the times this didn't seem to work and he felt like quitting his suck ass job, he just had to remind himself that maybe one day in the future it would pay off in the form of a patient going berserk. He always wanted to witness something really drastic, like one of the crazies holding a nurse hostage with a plastic knife or something.

Unfortunately, things like that rarely happened, no matter what they show in movies, and when they actually did he always seemed to miss them. Like when that Dean guy had went all kung-fu on seven guards and took them all down single handedly. He had, however, been there when the same guy had tricked Jerry into coming into his cell only to knock him flat on his ass. Actually, he couldn't say he would have been too unhappy about missing that specific event, because while Jerry had been mercilessly fired after that stunt, he had come precariously close to being suspended himself.

It was Jerry's stupidity that had got them all in that mess. For as long as Kevin had known the hotheaded guard he had always had an anger management issue, but there was something about this Dean guy that seemed to make Jerry's blood boil extra hard. He didn't bother Kevin as much. In fact, he had kind of enjoyed watching Dean taunt Jerry with that head bashing act and then use him as a soccer ball. Sure, Jerr was one of his pals, but he could get kind of annoying sometimes.

Almost as if on cue, Kevin's cell phone began to ring as the song "I'm Too Sexy" sounded throughout the wide hall. The guard reached into his pocket and took out the simple looking device, flipping it open to reveal the late night caller as Jerry Oakwood.

"Hey, man, I was just thinking about yah!" Kevin exclaimed as he put the phone to his ear.

"Yah, well, I hope you ain't dreamin' about me too." Came Jerry's tinny voice from the other end of the phone.

Kevin let out a laugh. "Nah, man, just thinking about how much it sucked you got fired," he said.

The phone was silent for a moment but then Jerry's voice returned. "Yah, about that... I need you to do me a favor."

/

There was something in the way Sam - if that was even his real name – looked at him that caused Dean to bite back the sarcastic comment he had been about to release. The kid just looked so _innocent_, with that stupid, helpless expression he wore so well. Dean could have sworn it reminded him of a puppy's face after it had been yelled at by its owner for peeing on the rug, and he could not help but concur to the man's wishes, even if reluctantly.

Sighing forcefully, Dean did not take his eyes off of the man before him, refusing to give him any advantage if he turned out to be as mental as he feared he was. "What am I supposed to be remembering exactly?"

Dean could visibly see the man's shoulders ease as a small smile spread across the younger man's lips. "_Anything_," he said, which wasn't exactly specific, resulting in Dean giving a dubious look that prompted the man to give details. "Um, uh," Sam said in thought, his eyes flickering to the left and then to the right as if he could find something in the cell to help his thought process. After a moment his eyes focused on Dean himself.

"What?" Dean asked, slightly annoyed at Sam's inability to back up his claims.

"Your necklace," the younger man stated, nodding his head at the strange amulet hanging from Dean's neck. Dean looked down at the object, gripping it between his fingers as he stared at the small, carved face. "You've never taken it off, not once, since you got it." Sam explained. "It's really special to you."

Dean remembered his first day arriving at the institution. He recollected the lady who first greeted him asking him politely to give his necklace to her for 'safe keeping' along with his other possessions, but he had refused. He also recalled Alex - that punk in cell 313 who was only here because his lawyer had got him a sanity plea to avoid his ass being thrown in jail for seven years – trying to snatch it from him, but he had given him hell in return. Dean had always felt the necklace was something important, something he should hold on to, and now Sam was telling him the very same thing.

"Where…" Dean started to ask in a quiet voice but coughed and started again a bit louder. "Where did I get it?"

"Dad gave it to you," Sam replied. "On your eighteenth birthday. It's a protective charm. It's supposed to protect you from evil. It keeps you safe."

Dean looked up at the familiar stranger standing in front of him, and for this first time he could recall, he did not feel lost. "But how am I supposed to remember?" he asked feebly.

Shaking his head, Sam simply said, "You just have to try."

Dean looked down at his hand, the amulet still grasped within it, and for once he tried. He _truly_ tried to remember.

_"I'm telling you Dean, if you don't slow down you're going to get us in an accident."_

_"Gary Jorelle was a busy man. They say he murdered, what, _thirty three_ people?" _

_"You really give no credit to your brother's intelligence, do you Sammy?"_

_"Well, the police report said two bodies were found on the third floor, room 395."_

_"Looks like a… J Stevens Model 58A bolt action shotgun with a tapered barrel."_

_"Come on you son of a bitch!"_

_"Give me that shotgun and I'll do the same."_

_"I'll end him."_

_I stumbled rearward, hands clasped to either side of my head as I groaned in agony. I could feel it – the furious spirit – squirming in my mind, tearing at my conscience as I tightened my eyes and tried desperately to will it out. But it clawed and dug, attempting to burrow itself permanently into my body. It was trying to take over. It was gaining control and all I could do was grip my head and scream. _

_ I was barely aware of my staggering steps backward, for my focus was on the blinding pain exploding in my mind and the anger that was consuming me. "Get out!" I screamed at the invisible force inside of me. "Get the hell out!" But it did no good and now I could feel my mind ripping open, the spirit forcing its way in and the pain spiraling throughout my entire body. _

_ And then I was falling. The spirit still clinging inside of me, the last memory to slide into place was the few moments before I hit the ground, and then only blackness. _

Looking up, Dean saw his little brother, and he remembered it all. Their entire past was laid out clearly before him and it was as if a dark haze had suddenly been lifted. Because he had dredged up all those deep memories in that tiny moment and now he recalled every last thing; every single hunt he had been on, every woman he had slept with, every event in his life that had left a gaping wound within him.

The memory of his mother's smile… His first hunt… Almost losing Sammy to that creature… Actually losing him when he left for college… Dad missing… Returning to Sam… Seeing mom again… His life was back, and though it was a dark, misled one, he was damn glad to have it.

Dean let out a shuddering breath. "Sammy," he stated simply, and Sam's face was consumed by a smile. "I'm back man."

* * *

**To be continued.**


	9. Chapter Nine

**A/N:** First eleven chapters have been updated slightly from their original posts.

* * *

**NO NEED TO REMEMBER**

**Chapter IX**

The sound of faint footsteps resonating down the hall alerted the two brothers of the guard's presence. The strides were not particularly fast but they were unmistakably heading in the direction of Dean's cell, and in little less then a minute the unsuspecting guard would realize that his casual nightly round had suddenly transformed into an escape attempt in progress.

"Shit!" breathed Dean as he looked around the room, trying desperately to find some place his brother could hide. There was nowhere. The small cell was practically streamlined besides the tiny bed he was sitting upon which was unfortunately too close to the ground for Sam to squeeze under. There was not even a toilet in which Dean could shortly amuse himself by entertaining the idea of using it to hide Sam within. He may have even tried it once or twice when they were kids…

All of these thoughts were becoming quickly pointless as Dean had no doubt that the guard would soon notice his open cell door and find Sam – or Dr. Cass as all others had come to know him – where he was certainly not supposed to be. Only problems would transpire afterwards. Sam's true identity would be put into question once it was revealed that there _was_ no Dr. Cass, which would prompt the authorities to wonder what his connection with Dean was. Even behind his amnesic alias, Dean was already a suspicious character concerning the law. Once it was discovered that he was a wanted criminal and that he was also supposed to be _dead_, than that's where the brothers' road pretty much ended. Dean had no desire to imagine beyond.

All these sullen thoughts ran through his head as he was still lost for a solution. He couldn't shut the door; the sound would alert the guard and Sam would be trapped in here until the morning. Sam couldn't make a run for it; he would surely be spotted. He couldn't simply  
wait here for their impending doom; that had never been Dean's style.

Suddenly, it arrived. Standing up and grabbing his brother – who was also scouring the room for a hiding place - by the shoulders, Dean took on a grave tone as he whispered, "Sammy, listen to me. There _is_ something seriously wrong with me. The spirit of Gary Jorelle, I think it's inside of me. The bastard's been messin' with my head and-"

"Dean, I know, but do you really think this is the best time to be discussing this?" Sam asked with a touch of panic in his voice. The alarmed yell of the guard echoing down the hall followed by the quickened pace of his footsteps seemed to confirm Sam's point.

"Shit!" Dean hissed again. He looked like he wanted to say something more but then gazed over Sam's shoulder at the entranceway. "Run when he's distracted!" he ordered as he suddenly pushed past his brother. Before Sam could reply or reach out a hand to stop him, Dean flew out of the room and disappeared around the corner.

/

Sam heard a louder shout and then the sound of a collision. He hurriedly stepped towards the entrance, chancing a look out into the hallway where he saw his brother wrestling with the guard on the hallway floor, the stunned man trying desperately to call for backup on his radio. Dean was in the process of punching the guy when Sam took off in the opposite direction, running as hard and quietly as he could to the room he had entered the building from.

He wanted to curse Dean for his rash stupidity. Hell, Sam wished he could have pulled him off that guard and given his brother a punch himself. Dean had just insured the reality that he would not escape that night, and now Sam knew it would be twice as hard to create a new plan to help him. Not to mention and add to the problem that Dean still had the vengeful spirit of a serial killer within him…

They could have both made a run for it, but instead Dean had made the dense decision to avoid the risk of both of them being caught. When did Dean ever give up the chance to outwit authority? _Oh, that's right,_ the younger Winchester thought bitterly to himself as he climbed out of the open window. _Whenever my safety is involved. The stupid jerk…_

Shimmying down the tree awkwardly, Sam's feet touched ground and he began to make his way off of the property and across the nearest street where the Impala was parked. As he climbed into the car and glanced at the institution, seemingly peaceful and undisturbed on the outside, Sam could only sigh and hope the consequences his brother now faced would not stop his plans for escape.

He knew what Dean had done was not the smartest thing, but it had at least allowed Sam to escape without detection. For now. As he started up the car, he realized he couldn't stay mad for long. Not when he was so grateful that Dean had actually remembered him. 'Thank god," he mumbled under his breath as the engine roared to life. He had his brother back.

/

Dr. Brant had received the news while sleeping comfortably beside his wife in his two storey house in the country. He had glanced tiredly at his clock - the red blocked numbers revealing that it was just past three o'clock in the morning - as he listened to the informing voice on the other end of the phone. Something had happened at the institution that required his immediate attention

He had known that Dean was involved before the circumstances were even explained, and he had arrived at the mental facility twenty minutes later, still rubbing sleep from his eyes but quickly becoming focused on the situation. A serious event had occurred. An unstable patient had almost escaped. It was a severely rare occurrence with dire consequences.

Now he was sitting within his office five hours later, Dean situated in his usual chair across from him, legs and arms once again chained.

"You realize what you did was very serious, Dean, don't you?" Dr. Brant questioned, looking at the patient over his thin glasses. The man had a dark bruise on his cheekbone and his knuckles looked incredibly swollen.

"Please, doc, I've been told. But let me just state for the record that it was not my intent to escape," Dean said innocently.

Dr. Brant decided to play along although he knew where it was headed. "Then what _were_ your intentions Dean?"

The patient smiled. "I just wanted to go for a midnight run is all."

Robert Brant sighed heavily. Removing his glasses with one hand he began to stiffly rub his eyes, speaking in the process. "Dean, the board has been talking about transferring you to a higher level facility. It has been discovered that someone tried to help you escape."

A flicker of alarm ran across Dean's face before it was immediately hidden behind a smirk. "Yah, I know. It was Lassie. You know that dog who rescues babies from burning houses and everything? I thought if it can do that, why can't it help me escape from a mental institution, right?"

"Dean, please be serious here," Dr. Brant said sternly. "Loops were found on the security cameras. They were expertly placed so whoever tried to break you out is obviously well trained in the matter. You couldn't possibly have opened the door from the inside. There's just no way. _Someone _was there to help you, and I think you know who it was."

The two men stared at each other, neither one looking away. Dean's eyes were narrowed but Dr. Brant's stare was unbreakable. Finally, between clenched teeth, Dean growled, "You don't understand who I am."

Dr. Brant was taken aback by this. He slowly blinked once, twice, and then asked, "You remember?"

Dean let out his own sigh and looked down at the chains on his wrists and ankles. "Listen, doc, I know we've never really gotten along or anything but…" He hesitated for a moment. "I _really_ need you to believe me right now."

Robert Brant observed his patient, realizing for the first time that something had changed. Dean looked different, sounded different, _was_ different. Something drastic had been altered within him and Dr. Brant recognized it as recollection. Dean remembered. And now he was asking for his help. Dr. Brant could do nothing more than nod his head and say, "All right. I'll try my best."

"I don't belong here, doc," Dean began. "There are people out there who need my help and it's important that I'm there to help them. Lives depend on it."

"You save people?" Dr. Brant asked with a raise of his eyebrows.

"Yah… Yah I do." Dean looked truly sincere. Dr. Brant was having a hard time not believing him, but he had come across plenty of good acts in the past, and he was not about to let his guard down near this one.

"Do you remember your real name, Dean?" the doctor asked after a moment, his voice showing no hint of difference.

Dean's eyes sharply lifted to meet his, the patient's head still bent low. "You don't believe me."

"I never said I didn't believe you, but-"

"But you don't!" Dean shouted, his voice deeper, colder, almost transformed. "You don't understand. I have to end him. He deserves to be ended. I have to end him. I have to end him."

Dr. Brant's eyes widened at the familiar saying. Dean had stated something similar while under hypnosis, and now he was repeating the words over and over again, almost as if in a fit.

"He deserves to be ended!" Dean yelled, yanking continuously at the chains linking his hands, deep gashes appearing where the metal viciously cut into his skin.

"Jesus…" Dr. Brant said in horror before he called to the guard standing outside the door. Blood was trickling down the patient's wrists as he was injected with the same drug that had once calmed him before. Dr. Brant watched in dismay as Dean's eyes glazed over yet the words "I have to end him" were still uttered from his lips in a hushed whisper. Even as the patient was taken from the room the words echoed around him.

And they sent a cold shiver down the doctor's back.

/

"Yah, all right," Kevin rumbled into the cell phone he clutched in his hand. "Tonight is perfect."

Sitting in the bright florescent light of the security room, his features appeared truly ghastly. A dark, purple bruise wound itself around his eye while another one had sprouted on the left side of his jaw. A large cut distorted the colour of his pale lips while a visit to the dentist earlier that day had informed the guard that two of his teeth had been loosened tremendously. And he had been unable to rid himself of the pounding headache throbbing in his ears all day long, for it seemed to be immune to every type of pill available over the counter.

He was still here, however, even after it had been insisted that he take a week off. He would have welcomed the vacation in any other situation, but this one was personal. He had only gone home for a quick nap and his dentist appointment before returning for his second night shift that week. He felt like he could sleep for a month, but he needed to be here if he were to make things even. After all, he had already made plans for tonight.

Flipping the phone shut, Kevin stared at the several screens sitting before him. In his training he had been strictly told to never take his job personally. He had always found it easy to brush off any harsh comment directed to him by a patient, telling himself that they were all just a bunch of crazies, but now things had changed. Dean was crazy all right, and maybe Kevin could have forgotten their whole incident all together, but now an opportunity faced him. A chance to get even, to obtain revenge for having to put up with all the crap he had endured for the past six years he had worked here.

And the best part was how easy it would be. He just had to look the other way.

* * *

**To be continued.**


	10. Chapter Ten

**A/N:** First eleven chapters have been updated slightly from their original posts.

* * *

**NO NEED TO REMEMBER**

**Chapter X**

Things were looking bad. _Very_ bad, and that meant a lot coming from a Winchester.

Dean sat on the edge of his bed, palms planted firmly atop the scratchy blanket on either side of him, his head hung low as he contemplated his situation. His expression contained the look of intense concentration, for within his mind he was desperately trying to figure out a way to set things right, but a solution continued to evade him.

Every once in a while his thoughts couldn't help but wander to the fact that he had a spirit within him; the remains of a serial killer who had taken the lives of numerous people in the past. An evil being who had stomped upon innocence and beaten it down until it was no longer pure or alive. The Winchester's fists clenched as the troubling knowledge invaded his planning and his eyebrows furrowed in anger.

Everything was so messed up. He couldn't even remember returning to his cell after sitting in Dr. Brant's office. The last thing he recalled was hinting to the doctor that he finally knew who he was, and then the guarded glint in the psychiatrist's eyes. Dean had guessed that the man would not believe him straight away, but telling him the truth was the only idea the Winchester had come up with that had the possibility of leading to an escape. If he could convince Dr. Brant that something sinister was at work, then maybe he could gain the old man's help.

However, Gary Jorelle seemed to have other plans. An extreme rage had consumed Dean's senses quickly after he had begun to tell Dr. Brant who he was, followed by a feeling of desperation. The Winchester must have been drugged again for he was not clear on the events that transpired afterwards. He had simply awoken in his cell, bandages wrapped around his wrists, and his surroundings indicating that it was night due to the deathly stillness that hung in the air.

The powerful emotions that had gripped him in Dr. Brant's office, wiping away his ability to sense the world around him, _must_ have arisen from Gary Jorelle. No other reasonable explanation existed. The spirit was screwing with Dean's mind and his feelings. The psycho phantom even went as far as to gain control of his body every once in a while, causing Dean to say things he knew nothing about and to act out in violence.

It had occurred several times after he had obtained his amnesia. When Dean had been lost and unaware of whom he was, the events had often left him confused and frightened. Sudden overwhelming feelings of rage and anguish did not seem normal, and they had mercilessly gripped him in random moments, resulting in a hazy memory of events that came to pass while the intense feelings engulfed his rationality.

It scared Dean even more now that he knew what was happening to him, for each time the spirit tried to take over, it seemed like he gave up less of a fight. This was the first time Dean had come out of a short possession with no memory of the happening, and the Winchester worried that the next time he wouldn't be able to regain control. He was terrified that even though he had gained his memory back, he'd lose custody of it once more along with his body, and he was absolutely petrified that he would be unable to stop himself if Gary Jorelle decided to hurt someone else.

Then there was Sam. God, it was so hard to think that only a day ago he had not known that his brother existed. How could you so easily forget a person who you've experienced so much with? Grief, fear, disappointment, anger, loss, pain; they both knew these feelings well, sometimes being the suppliers themselves, and they had both been connected because of them.

Thousands of memories, once lost, all so vivid and clear now. He couldn't imagine surviving without them and he certainly had no idea how he had done so for longer than a minute. These recollections - his past - were his life, what made him, and without them he was nothing; an empty shell.

Maybe that's what Gary Jorelle had wanted, a body void of memories, ambitions, fears, and hopes. Someone he could easily possess. Someone who had nothing to live for because they did not know what had kept them going for all the years they had apparently lived. Someone who was lost and alone and confused. Someone who, to themselves at least, did not exist. That's why Dean believed his amnesia was partly due to the spirit within him. Gary Jorelle wanted him to forget, which is why it had taken him so long to remember.

However, it wasn't Sam returning that had triggered his recollections. As Dean fingered the amulet around his neck, his mind suddenly drifted somewhere to the past.

His eighteenth birthday. Dean and his family holed up in some desert town in the middle of nowhere. His father had given him his present in private and Dean had been shocked. He hadn't once mentioned his birthday to the man, not wanting to make a fuss over some stupid, pointless event while people's lives were at stake. He had thought his father had forgotten like he had the year before, too busy with the hunt.

"Keep it safe," his father had said as he handed him the amulet. "Take it with you wherever you go and it will find a way to protect you. If you ever find yourself lost, son, it will guide you back."

So Dean had done exactly as he was told, never taking off the amulet he had tied around his neck that day. Not once, and nine years later it had aided him in his mission to regain his memories. Even when everything else was lost, Dean had felt that the amulet was important, and now he knew the full extent of that feeling. He knew exactly why his father had given it to him.

Dean tucked the amulet in his shirt, the cold metal pressing against his chest as he stood up from the bed. He walked over to the cell door, leaving behind the memory of his eighteenth birthday, and pressed his ear to the steel. Trying hard to distinguish any noise from the outside, he discovered there was nothing besides the gentle humming of the lights outside in the hallway.

Dean had miserably given up creating an escape plan, at least for now. His brother was probably thinking up a strategy at the very moment, one that would actually work and allow Dean to finally be free of the annoying caged feeling he felt constantly while locked within the institution. It teetered on the brink of claustrophobia, and he was incredibly sick of his sessions with Dr. Brant as well, always receiving dirty looks - often hostile - from the psychiatrist's secretary. He needed out.

Dean had ruined his previous chance of freedom the night before when he had acted without thinking of the consequences. Distracting the guard had seemed like a good idea at the time, for it provided Sam with an opportunity to run, which was all Dean needed to know before setting thought into action. It had worked to some extent. Sam had slipped away, but unfortunately, his presence had not gone unnoticed.

Now the board was mulling over the decision to transfer Dean to a higher facility, the police had grown even _more_ curious as to whom he was, and the shackles were back on due to Dean's violent behavior. However, unlike previous times, he took full responsibility of his aggressive actions. Gary Jorelle had helped initiate his first attacks, both when he had blown up in Dr. Brant's office and when he had enticed Jerry to enter his cell, but Dean himself had been in full control this time. Plus, it had felt pretty damn good to bash Kevin's face in. He was Jerry's pal, and Dean loathed anything and _anyone_ concerned with that asshole.

Suddenly, Dean's ears perked up as a noise drifted through the door. It sounded like hurried footsteps, and for a second Dean believed Sam had returned. However, the steps quickly bypassed his cell and began to fade until they disappeared all together.

Crushed from the abrupt disappointment and cursing himself for allowing hope to so easily appear, Dean was still lost for a solution to his current problem. He had a sullen feeling that none would be presenting themselves soon. Leaning against the door, he let out a heavy sigh as he slid down the steel and slumped to the ground.

"I am so screwed…"

/

There was the familiar _clank_ and then the door was swinging open. Dean held his hand in front of his eyes as he tried to shield them from the brilliant light pouring into the tiny room. The luminosity was a tremendous change from the usual dim lighting in the hallway, and it vividly highlighted the dark shape of a man standing in the entranceway.

Dean watched with panic-stricken eyes as the figure stomped forward, reaching down to where the Winchester lied on his bed and wrapping long fingers around his neck. He was pulled upwards like a pathetic rag doll and slammed against the wall, his head knocking painfully against the material.

"I have to end him!" the figure hissed in fury, a voice Dean did not recognize. "He deserves to be ended!" The fingers tightened and Dean found himself choking for air. "Give me that gun and I'll do the same."

The pressure was suddenly released and Dean was falling, tumbling towards the darkness he feared; entering a deep, black void where there was nothing but emptiness. Then the bareness transformed into agony and suddenly Dean's eyes were snapping open. He quickly realized he had been dreaming, experiencing a surreal nightmare, but he simultaneously discovered that the pain was all too real.

Dean sat up quickly, clutching his stomach as a concentrated throbbing unexpectedly seized it. He wheezed hoarsely, the air having been driven out of his lungs in a painful rush, and then found himself in a coughing fit as oxygen was swiftly and instinctively sucked back in. It felt like a sledgehammer had been rammed into his stomach with the speed of a galloping horse, and it took him a few moments to gain his bearings.

He was sitting on his bed, having finally fallen asleep in his cell after hours of worried contemplation. Rapidly discovering that he was unable to move from his current position, clenched stiffly in a tight ball, Dean could not lift his head to see his attacker.

Disoriented from sleep and shock and pathetically defenseless, Dean was unable to stop the two hands that ruthlessly gripped the front of his shirt and threw him to the ground. The Winchester had barely gained his breath back before it was knocked out of him again, this time accompanied by a shock that ran through his entire body upon connection with the floor.

A steel-toed boot collided with his right shoulder almost immediately afterwards and he let out a painful yelp. However, as a second kick came flying towards his head, Dean was prepared. He quickly twisted out of the way and grabbed the intruder`s ankle in the process, twisting it sharply with both hands and causing its owner to flip to the ground.

Rising shakily to his feet, bruises already forming on his body, Dean glanced down at the man lying on the floor. Jerry looked upwards in pure hatred as he began to stand up as well, his eyes fuming with rage and his face red with exertion.

Dean stepped back a few feet as he tried to stop his body from automatically gasping as it begged for air, his lungs still winded. He noted that his shoulder had almost dislocated when it had been kicked, and he resisted the urge to clutch his arm as he matched Jerry's glare. His back towards the open cell door, Dean knew he could make a run for it, but it could wait a few moments. The man before him had crossed the line too many times.

Instead of releasing his anger, Dean decided to maintain the cocky personality he knew Jerry had come to hate. He raised a corner of his mouth, smirking. Surprisingly, Jerry seemed to do the same, the rage that had once consumed the man's expression now nowhere in sight. It unnerved Dean slightly, but he didn't dare let his hesitation show.

"Sorry to spoil the fun, but I'm not exactly interested in joining your little tea party." Dean gave an apologetic smile as his voice dripped with mockery. The ex-guard's expression flickered with anger but gained its calm composure once again.

"Don't worry," Jerry smiled wickedly, his eyes glancing swiftly over Dean's shoulder. "This ain't no tea party."

As a sharp pain suddenly stung the back of his neck, Dean swirled around. His carefully concealed expression grew to slight puzzlement as he discovered Kevin standing behind him, a short needle gripped in the guard's hand – empty. Dean drew his hand to his neck where the pain had nipped and connected the sight before him to the sudden dizziness that enveloped his mind.

Time seemed to break as everything started moving in slow motion. His body was suddenly drained of its strength as numbness sheathed his limbs. His senses grew sluggish as his hearing became fuzzy and his vision began to blur considerably. Dean couldn't feel his hands, but when something hit him hard in the back the Winchester easily felt the pain.

Shock trembled from his legs upward as he fell to his knees, unable to see what or who had hit him. All he was aware of was the pain throbbing from his lower back and the panic that was quickly building up within him. Another burst of agony shot through his body as something hard collided with his left shoulder blade, knocking him to his hands. He felt the cold floor below his palms and fingertips, could see the black boot that suddenly obstructed his view and sent fire through his mind as it rammed the side of his skull.

His shoulder connected with the hard floor just before his head knocked painfully against it. His entire view seemed to wobble, swinging from invisible hinges as his heartbeat throbbed in his ears, blocking out all other sounds. A dark haze covered his sight but he resisted it, struggling to get up, to sort the blurry shapes before him. He made it to his knees before another object slammed into his stomach and he doubled over, unable to breathe as the air rushed out of his lungs for a third time.

"Damn it, Jerr, you said I wasn't going to be involved." The voice belonged to Kevin, and it sounded strangely metallic as Dean lay helpless on the ground. He could feel his body slowly begin to stiffen and paralyze, the strange effect caused not by the pain he felt but by the chemical that had been injected into his body.

"Shut up, you piece of crap!" Jerry answered in a harsh whisper. "I said you had to forget what you saw, and that's exactly what you're gonna do."

"You said you had a plan! You said they wouldn't suspect either of us."

"They won't."

"Jerr, I'm going to lose my job over this!" There was clearly panic in the security guard's voice. "I thought you were going to take care of everything. I thought you didn't need me."

"I said shut up, Kev!" Jerry growled again. "I _did_ take care of everything. The cameras are looped. No ones gonna know a thing. They'll just think it was the same guy as before and that he helped this mental case escape." Another kick in the stomach indicated that Jerry was obviously talking about Dean.

"But, man…" There was uncertainty in Kevin's tone. "I'm supposed to be watching this cell like a hawk. How am I supposed to explain that a patient escaped right before my eyes?"

There was a silence in which Dean could feel his mind slipping under the affects of the drug, but then Jerry's voice came forth again. "Like this."

A thick _thump_ resonated through the air, followed shortly afterwards by the sound of a body falling to the ground as the floor slightly trembled beneath the Winchester. Then Dean was being dragged upwards, and he struggled to gain a footing as he quickly found he could no longer hold on to the loose strings of consciousness.

* * *

**To be continued.**


	11. Chapter Eleven

**A/N:** First eleven chapters have been updated slightly from their original posts.

* * *

**NO NEED TO REMEMBER**

**Chapter XI**

Years of being a hunter had honed not only Dean's physical aspects but had also affected his mind and senses. To survive in his line of work required sharpened awareness, a type of endless instinct that never rested, not even when awakening from what felt like an excruciating hangover coupled with a few fractured ribs. Therefore, a hunter's mind does not take time to slowly say farewell to unconsciousness and show it to the exit. It immediately says 'get the hell out' and slams the door on its ass.

As a result, Dean was instantly and acutely aware of his surroundings before he even opened his eyes. The first thing he felt was the cold. The chilly damp air sent a quick shiver down his back, his body trembling, but the numbness prevented him from feeling anything else. There was a strong odor of cigarette smoke, as if one had just been put out beside him and the smoky tendrils were spreading upwards. The familiar metallic taste in his mouth could only be blood.

It was not until after his eyelids had slid open that Dean realized his wrists and ankles were bound to the arms and legs of the wooden chair he was situated in. He could barely see through one eye due to what he assumed was bruising, but the rest of his surroundings were somewhat clear. He was in what appeared to be an unfinished basement; the floors cement, bare support beams scattered across the space, walls consisting mainly of clear plastic covering pink insulator. It was difficult to distinguish anything else due to the lack of lighting, a dim glow radiating down from a rickety staircase the only light to be had. The steps were located in a corner of the room, a few meters away, and a turn of his head revealed that he was sitting in the opposite corner, furthest away from the light possible.

The duct tape binding his limbs seemed unbearably tight, reducing his movements to little more than the turning of his head. He had no chance of defending himself if he was required to. The only advantage he could discern was the fact that the chair was not bolted to the ground, allowing him to rock it back and forth, maybe enabling him to tackle whoever decided to reveal themselves as his captor.

The feeling of helplessness that was looming above Dean caused panic to settle in his chest. His mind was quickly formulating a plan, one that consisted of somehow throwing himself backwards and trying to smash the wooden chair against the wall behind him. It might have worked if, one, he could move his feet to propel himself backwards, and two, if the walls weren't made of pink insulator. He tried to use his strength to test his restraints, but the strain caused the awareness of his injuries to return with full force, reminding him of the beating he had endured when Jerry had decided to pay him a little after-visitors call.

He felt it everywhere as the pain overshadowed all his other senses for a brief moment. There was still the taste of copper in his mouth but that was of little concern, for his shoulder burned with pain and he wondered if it _had_ been dislocated after all. A sharp throb in his lower back was little compared to the seething soreness that blazed across his ribcage, most likely the outcome of a couple of broken ribs, and his head seemed like it was about to split open as it throbbed out of control.

He quickly struggled through the thick, heavy fog of pain and tried desperately to focus. He needed to study his surroundings more. He had to determine where he was. Who knew how long he had been here? It could have been only minutes, but Dean had the feeling it was at least a few hours. His stomach was gnawing away at itself with hunger, but that was the least of his worries.

Suddenly there was a creak from above. Dean recognized it as the low groan of weight being shifted upon old floorboards. Someone was upstairs, above him, walking. Dean's eyes followed the steps to the top of the basement staircase and he held his breath as the dim light filtering down was momentarily blocked by a large object. Then a shadow began to descend the stairs, each step producing a high-pitched squeak and a heavy thud. The figure took its time, finally reaching the bottom and simply standing there.

Dean couldn't see who it was, only saw the silhouette, but he could make a pretty damn good guess.

"This how you treat all your patients, Jerr?"

No answer. Jerry took three steps forward, reaching up as a clicking sound was heard and suddenly the room was alit. A single bare bulb hung above the man's head, the harsh lighting causing Jerry's features to appear fiercer than Dean recalled. Then he noticed Jerry's feet, clad in toe-steeled worker boots, half covered by faded blue jeans. Dirt everywhere. _Dirt_. That was never a good sign.

Jerry smiled. It wasn't forced but it wasn't real either. Something in the middle, like he had curved his lips upwards but there was nothing more to it. No emotion. No feeling. Dean had seen it many times before, but never like this. Never on a human being.

"Looks like you belong in the loony-bin more than I do," Dean sneered as he spat blood on the cement floor, understanding that this was serious. Scary serious.

The man just laughed, although it was clear that he did not appreciate the comment. "Working in a loony-bin for half your life is worse than being a patient. Trust me." His voice was gruff, curt, void of anything but what sounded like a mixture of hatred and slight madness.

"Yah, well, maybe you'll have to check yourself in and experience the other half of that statement before I can trust you," Dean stated, trying hard not to piss off this guy any further but failing miserably. He had never been good at keeping his mouth shut.

"You can trust me, Dean." Jerry walked slowly over to one side of the basement, reaching into the shadows that lined the wall and pulling out what appeared to be a shotgun. "But first I need to know a few things".

/

He picked up on the fourth ring, just like Sam remembered. It seemed old habits died hard.

"Hello?"

"Hey Caleb, its Sam."

"Winchester?" There was a tone of disbelief before it was replaced with recognition. "Hell, I haven't talked to you in years."

Sam smiled, glad to be talking to an old friend again. "Yah, sorry about that," he apologized awkwardly. "I've been, uh… busy lately."

"Don't worry, I know all about it," Caleb admitted freely. "And I can't say I blame yah for wanting to live a normal life. I've been there myself. But Dean's been telling me you're back on the job."

Sam chuckled though there was little humor in his laugh, "Yah, well I guess I couldn't stay away for long."

"No one can. But, hey, you boys still looking for your dad? I haven't spoken with John for a good few months."

"Yah, we're still searching for him…" Sam shook his head slightly to clear his mind and focus on his task. "Um, but that's not why I'm calling. I actually need your help with some research."

"Well I'd be honored to provide the brilliant Sam Winchester with something he did not learn at the prestigious Stanford school for higher education."

Sam suddenly remembered who Dean had obtained his sarcasm from as he tried to resist grinning at the hunter's comment. "Yah, well, I was wondering if you had any information on a serial killer named Gary Jorelle. He's-"

"Wait a second. Gary Jorelle?" Caleb interrupted, a strange tone in his voice. Sam decided he didn't like it.

The Winchester's eyebrows knitted as he asked, "Yah, you've heard of him?"

"_Heard_ of him?" Caleb chuckled. "I spent nearly a week with the guy a few years back."

Sam didn't know what to say to that. "Caleb, what are you talking about?"

"I'm saying that I took care of him a long time ago," was the older hunter's reply. "His spirit had been causing some trouble in the old jailhouse he had been executed in. That was… well, near the end of ninety four I'd have to say. More than a decade ago."

"You're saying that you've already destroyed Gary Jorelle's spirit?" Sam asked, dreading the answer.

"Salted and burned the bones myself."

Sam could literally hear his heartbeat quicken as the blood pumped in his temples. His mind was fervently trying to make the connections Caleb's words made with his current predicament, but they kept coming untied. The pieces were all there but he knew that they somehow would not form the puzzle he had imagined.

"Sam? Sam, are you still there?" Caleb sounded concerned as his voice crackled with static over the cell phone.

"Um, yah," answered the Winchester, his voice slightly distant. "You're starting to cut out. Uh, thanks for your help Caleb. I'll talk to you later."

Hanging up the phone before the hunter could reply, Sam stared at the empty windshield before him, not even seeing the view behind it. There was only one question running through his head.

_ If Gary Jorelle's spirit had already been destroyed, than who was haunting Dean?_

_/_

He was about to get his brains blown out of his skull and Jerry wanted to _talk_? What could they possibly talk about?

"Who the hell are you?" came Jerry's voice, his form half hidden in the shadows but the barrel of the shotgun in clear view.

Dean let out a short laugh. "You're asking a guy with amnesia that? Come on Jerr, have a little common sense-"

"I'm asking a lying-son-of-a-bitch-soon-to-be-dead-smartass, not an asshole with amnesia," was Jerry's snarling reply.

Dean sighed, panic being kept at bay as his mind occupied itself with devising a plan of escape while simultaneously amusing Jerry and distracting him from the gun he held. "All right, you got me." He would have raised his hands in mock surrender if he could have. "The name's Dean Winchester."

A cold gleam appeared in Jerry's eyes. "Winchester, huh? And the one who tried to break you out the other night, who's that?"

Dean faltered for a moment. "I don't know."

"T'hell you don't!" Jerry stomped forward, muddy footprints tracking across the cement floor, shotgun swinging by his side in a mad blur. His face was suddenly only a few inches away from Dean's own, rage burning in his eyes. "You _do not_ want to lie to me Winchester. Now _who the hell_ tried to break you out?"

Dean was about to deny he knew the truth again when a wave of exhaustion suddenly washed over him, dimming his vision as a hazy blanket seemed to cover his mind. His head dipped slightly, his eyelids drooping, but he fought to remain conscious. It was a difficult task, for it felt like he had been transported back to Dr. Brant's office, the sedative drug being injected into his veins.

"Answer me, damn it!" Jerry shouted in his face, more pissed than Dean had ever seen him before. And now there was no one around to stop Jerry from doing what he had probably wished to do for a very long time. Kill Dean Winchester.

"I- I don't know…" Dean said groggily, battling the pull of sleep that had unexpectedly grabbed him. He found he could barely keep his head from rolling forward as his tense muscles began to slowly relax against his will. He could hear Jerry yelling but the words seemed distant, far away like he was underwater. He tried to move his right shoulder in a hopeless attempt to remain awake, hoping that the jostling would ignite the fiery pain in his muscle and snap his senses to alert, but the darkness had already crept too close. His chin fell to his chest, his body slumping forward, and Dean let his eyelids slide shut, Jerry's furious expression disappearing from view.

It seemed like only seconds had passed before Dean's eyes snapped open once more. He had no way of knowing how much time had passed. However, he quickly discovered that he was no longer within the cold basement room. The tape binding his limbs had disappeared and he was now situated on something much more comfortable than the hard wooden chair. The material was somewhat scratchy underneath his skin, and suddenly he realized where he was.

Dean was in his cell, lying upon the familiar bed that he had slept upon for the past several weeks. It was quiet. The room was dark and empty, the sound of his breathing the only noise disturbing the stillness.

But something wasn't right. Why was he here? Had he dreamed everything that had occurred with Jerry? Had it all been some warped nightmare? No, it had felt too real. His mind could never fabricate pain like that. But his body no longer ached. As he sat up on the bed and easily swung his legs over the side he felt no protest from his previously smarting muscles. Was he dreaming now?

There was a _clank_ and then the cell door was quickly swinging open. Dean squinted as a familiar luminosity poured forth from the entrance, a shadowy figure standing before him. He watched, bewildered, as déjà-vu played out before him. The figure treaded heavily forward, gripped his neck before he could react, and pulled him roughly upwards, pushing him against the wall.

"I have to end him!" the unknown voice snarled in his face. "He deserves to be ended!" Dean could feel his lungs screaming for air. "Give me that gun and I'll do the same."

The figure let go and Dean was falling again, towards the darkness, but this time he could hear voices all around him. They filled the emptiness, surrounding him, all familiar, all mixing to form a low hum. Suddenly one grew louder, the singular voice reaching out over the others.

_"Do you know why you're here, Dean?" _

It was Dr. Brant, his thoughtful tone raising the question he had asked during their first session. Dean heard his own voice answer, determination in his words, and remembered the exact moment in the past in which he had stated them.

_"There are people out there who need my help and it's important that I'm there to help them. Lives depend on it."_

Dean's voice suddenly transformed. He sounded scared, lost, confused, and he recalled listening to the same unfamiliar words on the tape recorder.

_"They want me to help them. I can't. They're angry. I don't know how to help them."_

His brother's voice cut through the others, and Dean longed to return to the moment he had heard those words. Things had been strangely simpler then.

_"Well, the police report said two bodies were found on the third floor, room 395 … Now remember. There might be more than just a couple spirits in there."_

Something was trying to take shape.

_"Are you telling me we might not even be dealing with the ghost of Gary Jorelle?" _

Something was pushing for his attention.

_"You said they were taking your thoughts. Giving you their memories."_

It was forming through the words.

_"Looks like a… J Stevens Model 58A bolt action shotgun with a tapered barrel."_

He could almost grasp it.

_"The shotgun was pointed at me … It's not my memory."_

It was so close, just out of his reach.

_"I mean, it could be one of _them_, turned angry spirit after being brutally murdered."_

And then another voice stepped forward, the others stopping all together.

_"You're the one in chains … So you better watch out who you piss off around here."_

It was a threat. A warning he had obtained from Jerry and had never taken seriously. Not until now. Dr. Brant's words echoed in his head once more, barely drowning Jerry's out.

_"Now I want you to listen to my voice. Listen to what it is telling you… I want you to imagine a light, Dean. A pinprick of light in your vision that slowly grows larger and larger until everything is visible."_

Jerry's voice came back, louder than before.

_"Why stop now Dean? WHY STOP NOW?"_

And then there was the dark figure standing before him once more, and as the shadow opened its mouth Dean heard his own voice match its lips.

_"Oh, he's no man. He's a monster. We're all monsters. Every single one of us is capable of what he did. Give me that shotgun and I'll do the same._

_"I'll end him." _

But the silhouette was changing. It was morphing into something else, and as Dean began to focus harder on the darkened features he suddenly realized who he was staring at.

* * *

**To be continued.**


	12. Chapter Twelve

**A/N:** First eleven chapters have been updated slightly from their original posts.

* * *

**NO NEED TO REMEMBER**

**Chapter XII**

The dream-state Dean had slipped into quickly receded. It was like a giant hand had grabbed the back of his neck and yanked him out, the images growing further and further as he hurdled backwards and into the chair he had escaped from. He opened his eyes, staring down at his lap, and then slowly raised his head. Jerry was still glowering at him.

"It was you…" The words were barely a whisper on Dean's lips as he looked at the man with new eyes, realization suddenly dawning. "The two deaths, they weren't suicides at all. _You_ killed them."

Jerry appeared slightly taken aback by Dean's accusation but quickly recovered, his thick eyebrows cutting downward in a scowl. "Why were you there? What the hell were you doing there?"

"You mean at the scene of the crime?" Dean shook his head in disbelief as the last effects of the dream he had just experienced were shaken off. "I knew they couldn't have been suicides."

"_HOW?_" Jerry yelled, stepping back and standing straight, the shotgun lifting to point directly at Dean's face.

Dean couldn't help but examine the gun, whispering the recognizable description. "J Stevens Model 58A bolt action shotgun with a tapered barrel. Of course. They were trying to show me."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Dean looked up at the man, everything suddenly clear. "It's not Gary Jorelle. It's _them_. The people you murdered."

A smirk lifted Jerry's lips. "You really are nuts."

Dean shook his head. "No Jerr, I'm not. They're here. They want revenge. They want _justice_." Jerry glared at him with confused eyes, tightening his grip on the shotgun. "I don't know why you killed them or how it all went down, but the fact is that you committed murder, and now you're going to pay for it."

"Oh yah? And how are you going to make me pay for it when I'm about to kill you too?"

Dean could see Jerry's finger begin to press the trigger, slowly edging it backward. "It's not me who's going to make you pay, Jerry. It's _them_."

Jerry laughed loudly, though there was a note of hysteria in his voice. He suddenly let the shotgun drop to his side, the barrel pointed safely at the cement floor. "Well you can tell whoever _they_ are that I'm a little busy right now."

Dean watched as the man took several heavy stomps towards him and rapidly raised the butt of the shotgun, slamming it against his skull and sending his vision rocking. As he tried desperately to cling to consciousness, the loud ringing in his ears almost deafening, he could barely make out Jerry's words as he said, "I think it's about time this mental patient was cured."

He was being dragged somewhere, his feet stumbling up the basement steps. The blow to his head disoriented him too severely for him to note the passage of time correctly. One moment he was strapped to a chair, the next he was climbing steps, and before he knew it he was being thrown face first onto a soft, damp surface. He clung at something with his hands, recognizing the material as grass. Random pinpricks of cold hit his skin, and somehow he managed to discern that they were raindrops. He was outside, and the heavens seemed to be spitting on him.

"No one's going to miss you." Jerry's voice grounded Dean and he was able to concentrate slightly better as the black splotches threatening to cloud his vision began to recede. He raised himself on his elbows, cranking his head to gather Jerry's position.

The man was standing a few feet away, only his head and shoulders visible. He was standing in a hole, and Dean had a sinking feeling in his gut as he realized it was a grave. _His_ grave.

Jerry's arm muscles bunched as he threw the shovel he held out of the way and then climbed out of the hole. As he approached, Dean attempted to increase the distance between them, but the only thing he managed to do was roll on his back. His mind was still too fuzzy to support the notion of balance, and it seemed his shoulder had been dislocated after all, for it wouldn't work as he tried to drag himself away.

Dean screamed in agony as Jerry slipped his arms beneath his shoulders and began to heave him backwards, towards the grave. He kicked with his legs but the jostling only increased the pain ripping through his shoulder and his ribs, causing a blackout to threaten his mind again. If he had any hope in surviving this, he needed to remain conscious, so he gave up on struggling.

"Jerry!" he yelled, hoping to reason with the guy. "You don't want to do this!"

The man laughed, but did not respond otherwise. Dean watched his bare feet drag through the dirt, his heels caked in mud. He wondered where the hell the spirits that had possessed him had gone. This would be a very opportune moment for them to show their asses, he thought, but even when he called out to them in his mind they gave no indication of hearing him. Maybe they had left.

_Screw them_, he seethed. _They get me in this mess and then leave?_

Dean's head hit the edge of the grave as Jerry let go of his upper body. His vision flared black again as he felt his legs be lifted and his entire body rotated ninety degrees. Then there was a hard shove on his side and he was falling into the hole. His back hit the bottom first, followed by a shockwave of pain as the air in his lungs shot out from between his lips.

His eyes squeezed shut, he struggled to catch his breath as something heavy hit his chest. Another weight landed atop his legs. He didn't have to look to know that they were piles of dirt raining down on him. Jerry was burying him alive, and if he didn't act soon he's soon be six feet beneath the ground.

Just as he finally managed to suck in a lungful of air, a clump of dirt hit his face. He rolled onto his side, coughing up the damp earth, hating the taste of it on his tongue. How the hell was he supposed to get out of this one? Dean had survived a lot in his short career as a hunter, escaping some close calls with both skill and luck, but his situation now looked pretty grim. Being buried alive had always been one way of dying Dean had tried to avoid, and the panic in his chest was growing with each shovelful of dirt that was dropped on him.

He knew he didn't have the strength to climb out of the grave, especially with Jerry waiting at the top. He determined that his only chance was to somehow get Jerry down here, and to knock him out. He blinked a few times to clear his head slightly, and then he yelled out, careful to shield his face from the onslaught of dirt. "Jerr, is that the fastest you can go?"

"Amazing," Jerry replied from above. "You're about to die-" More dirt fell on Dean's side. "-yet you're still able to make smart-ass remarks."

Dean coughed, blood mixing with the dirt he had hacked up earlier. There was a wheeze in his breathing but he still managed to force a laugh. "I thought you liked them," he called back. "Then again, they're what got you fired."

"If you're trying to get me angry, it's not going to work."

Crap. Time to switch gears.

"Did you enjoy killing them?" he asked, followed by another coughing fit. When there was no answer he knew he was on the right track. "Did it make you feel like a man, to pull that trigger and take a life? Did it make your blood rush, to kill something weaker than yourself?"

There was the clang, like Jerry had thrown the shovel to the ground again, and then the sound of retreating footsteps. Dean waited and listened, wondering where Jerry had gone. He rolled onto his back again and tried to sit up, but the stinging in his chest pushed him back down. It was hopeless. Even if he did manage to knock out Jerry, there was no way he was going to climb out of here himself.

His only chance was Sam. The kid was smart, always had been. He would know that Jerry was the one who had taken him, and he would figure out where. But if only hours had passed since he had been abducted, Sam might not know about his disappearance until the morning. Dean hoped this property was Jerry's. Otherwise he would be waiting in this grave for a long time, if he even survived.

Dean didn't hear Jerry returning until the man was jumping into the hole next to him. He had the shotgun in his left hand, and he waved the thing in front of Dean as he straddled him, punching the air out of his lungs again. "You see this gun?" he snarled. "I shot both of those stupid kids in the face with it. They deserved to die, just like you do.

"They used to tease my mom, you see. Because she wasn't all…" he trailed off, as if looking for the right word, his eyes frantically looking from side to side. "_There_." He pointed to his head. "She wasn't all there. So those little bastards used to call mean, nasty things to her when they were little runts, and then they would run away giggling. I ran after them, but I wasn't such a good runner, so I could never catch them."

He dragged a hand across his face, leaving a streak of dirt on his cheek. Dean listened as he took quick, shallow breaths, the pressure of Jerry sitting on his torso constricting his breathing. "One time they got too close. They were stupid, cocky. My mom grabbed the boy by the hair and started to hit him. The son of a bitch ran home crying, and the next day they came for her. My mom ended up in Redgrove Asylum. The only reason I started working there was to look after her. No one there knew she was my mom, so they didn't say sorry when she died a few months ago."

It didn't even seem like Jerry was talking to Dean now. He was looking at the dirt walls of the grave, his eyes frantically moving, his hands shaking, as he continued the story. "But those damn kids had _the nerve_ to show up to her funeral. They were all grown up now, and they said they were sorry for the way they used to treat my mom. I knew they were both full of shit, and so I killed them. I tricked them into going to that building with me and then I shot them dead."

He glared down at Dean, finally focusing on him once more. "Then you came along and ruined everything. You started teasing me, just like how those kids teased my mom. She didn't deserve that."

Dean swallowed, his throat raw from the strain of breathing. "I'm sorry, Jerr," he said, but to no extent did he mean it. If what Jerry said was true, it explained a lot, but it did not excuse the man for his actions. Life threw crap at you and you dealt with it. You sucked it up and you moved on. It was a messed up world, and it drove some people crazy, but it was never a good justification for murder.

"T'hell you are," Jerry growled, his scowl deepening. "But you will be."

Jerry dropped the shotgun to the side and then reached his elbow back. His fist came hurdling forward, knocking Dean's head to the side as it bashed into his skull. There was a sickening _crack_ and then nothing but blinding pain. Dean's vision flashed white. He probably would have cried out if his body had allowed him to.

He felt the fist connect with his head again, but there was no pain this time. It was as if he had retreated far into his mind. He could still see through his eyes, but he could not feel or move his body. It was the same unusual sensation he had felt when he had lost control of his actions in the mental facility; when he had been possessed by the spirits haunting him.

_About time_, he grumbled to himself.

He knew he was lifting his hand, because he watched it as it grabbed hold of Jerry's collar. The man went to brush it away, preparing to punch Dean again, but seemed surprised as the grip refused to loosen. Jerry's eyes bulged as he was pulled downward, close to Dean's face. Dean's mouth opened and then there was a strange rushing sensation, as if he was exhaling, but instead of carbon dioxide being released, it was something heavier and thicker. A pale grey smoke streamed from his mouth to Jerry's, who was looking at him with horror, his lips forming a round 'o'.

The moment lasted for a few seconds, and then Jerry was falling to the side as Dean's arm dropped back to his side and he realized he was in full command of himself again. He took a deep breath as the pain rushed forward, including a fresh ache on the side of his face and a new urge to vomit. But he held back the bile rising in his throat as he watched Jerry scurry back, his knees pulled to his chest as his back hit the far side of the grave.

"What did you do?" he screamed, his eyes bloodshot and round. "What the hell did you do to me?"

Dean wanted to answer with a smart ass remark, but his body was in no condition to speak. A stream of blood escaped his lips and ran down his cheek, but he ignored it, fascinated as Jerry began to twitch. At first it was a small jolt, but soon his entire body was shuddering, and he began to scream profanities as his arm reached for the shotgun he had dropped next to Dean.

"Stop!" he yelled, clearly not controlling his own body. "I said stop! Stop it!"

But his protests did no good, and soon the barrel of the gun was pointing upwards and resting at the bottom of his chin. Jerry was crying now, tears running down his chubby cheeks. "I'm sorry," he sobbed. "I'm sorry. I'm-"

_Bang_.

Dean shut his eyes, but not before he caught a glimpse of Jerry's brain matter splattering across the grave wall. As he lied in the darkness of his eyelids, he heard the slump of a body and something heavy fall across his legs. He wanted to kick Jerry's lifeless body off, but he didn't have the effort in him.

After a few moments, as he allowed his pounding heart to slow down, Dean cracked his eyes open. He was staring up at the dark, night sky. He wondered if he had fallen unconscious again and this was a dream, because two faces were staring down at him. A young man and woman, probably in their early twenties. They were pale. Too pale; almost glowing. They were smiling, and then they were looking at each other across the opening of the grave. Before Dean could ask them for help they were gone.

He closed his eyes again, exhaling. Damn ghosts.

* * *

**To be continued.**


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**A/N: Sorry for the length of this chapter. I was considering posting it as two separate parts but thought t'hell with it! Here's the ending. Take it or leave it. Just be warned that I was never very good at endings. Tying loose ends is not my forte. ****I also just wanted to say... _SEVEN YEARS_ and it's finally done! Took me long enough. And thanks to all of you readers! I'm really happy you actually take the time to read my work. It means more than you know. **

* * *

**NO NEED TO REMEMBER**

**Chapter XIII**

Richard Brant mumbled grumpily to himself as he climbed down his stairs. He hadn't believed someone was knocking on his front door until he had heard it for the third time. He and his wife did not get many visitors, let alone those who arrived at 3AM in the morning.

When he opened the door he was surprised to find the person standing behind it. "Dr. Cass. What are you doing here?" He couldn't possibly fathom what kind of emergency had brought the young man to his house at such an absurd hour.

"Sam," the young man corrected. "Please, call me Sam." He glanced away for a moment, peering at the neighbour's house as if he was worried someone was watching. "I need a favour from you, Dr. Brant. It's extremely important."

"_Now_? What could possibly be so important that-"

"It's about Dean. I need to speak with him, and you're the only one who can help me do that."

The doctor furrowed his brow. "Of course, Sam. I'll discuss it with the board next week and see if I can set up an appointment. But couldn't this have waited until the morning?"

"No," Sam said curtly. "I have to speak with him as soon as possible. I was hoping we could go to Redgrove now, actually."

Dr. Cass chuckled, shaking his head. "It's good to see you're passionate about your research, but I'm afraid it's too early in the morning. We couldn't possibly go now. And besides, there are proper procedures that have to be taken. The board must approve a visitation first. Then we can set a date." He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, beginning to close the door. "We can talk about this tomorrow. Give me a call and-"

A large hand slammed the door, stopping it from closing any further. "I have to talk with him _now_," Sam growled.

"Are you insane?" Dr. Brant asked angrily. He did not appreciate being woken up in the middle of the night, and he certainly did not like being ordered about. "It's 3AM in the morning. I told you we can talk about this later."

"I'm sorry." Sam's voice returned to its normal tone. "I didn't mean to- Just… Please…" There was something akin to anguish in his voice. "He needs my help. I just want to talk with him. He's…" he hesitated. "He's my brother."

For a moment Dr. Brant thought he was lying, but the expression on the man's face did not seem to be part of an act. The only thing Richard Brant knew for sure was that Dr. Cass was not who he said he was.

"Who are you?" he enquired, surprised he was able to remain calm.

"Dean isn't crazy," Sam explained, avoiding the question. "He's just… confused."

"Is he in danger?"

There was no hint of doubt in Sam's tone as he answered, "Yes. He might be in a lot of danger."

Dr. Brant contemplated the situation for a moment. He knew he would be crazy to break into his own workplace to help a man he barely knew, but something was nudging at him to do exactly that. He didn't know where the feeling was coming from, but he felt himself nod his head. "Give me a moment."

He shut the door and then ran upstairs, changing in the darkness so as not to wake and worry his wife. He then went back downstairs and slipped into his shoes, draping a coat over his shoulders. When he reopened the door Sam turned to him with a hopeful expression on his face.

"Let's go," he said, stepping past the younger man and into the cold. He walked with stiff legs to the black car parked on the street he assumed belonged to Sam, getting in without a word.

Inside, Sam apologized. "I'm sorry again to ask this of you."

Dr. Brant didn't respond, and the two were quiet until they reached Redgrove Asylum. He assumed Sam wouldn't have answered any questions he posed anyway. As they pulled up to the building he was surprised to see police cars parked out front, their sirens flashing red and blue. "You stay here and I'll go see what's happening," he commanded as the car rolled to a stop. Exiting the vehicle, he made his way to a cluster of police officers and staff members standing about.

"Richard!" He saw Philip Coorman wave him over, the director of the facility. "Did someone call you? I thought I told George to let you sleep through this one."

Pulling the lapel of his coat closer, he squinted at the man as he reached the group. "What's going on?"

"Looks like your favourite patient pulled a Houdini act again. Only this time he succeeded."

"John Doe?"

"Yep. One of them rookie guards came on shift tonight and found his cell wide open. Found Kevin inside too. The way _he_ explains it, he was on his rounds when the patient started having a seizure. When he opened the cell he was attacked. I guess the patient ran off."

"There's no security footage?"

"Someone looped them. Looks like we're dealing with the same intruder as last time. Don't know how he got by the extra security we issued though…" the old man grumbled. "But don't worry about it, Rich. We'll find the patient. You go back to your wife and tell her I said hi."

Dr. Brant nodded, but he had a feeling he wasn't going to be sleeping in his warm bed tonight. When he was sitting in the passenger seat of the car again he explained to Sam what had happened. The man looked even more anxious than before. "What exactly is going on?" the doctor questioned.

"It wasn't the same person who looped the cameras," Sam said. "_I_ was the one who did it the last time. Someone helped Dean break out tonight, but I don't think they did it as a favour."

Dr. Brant frowned. "What do you mean?"

Sam turned to him, his voice level but urgent, as if he was used to dealing with situations that put him under a lot of pressure. "Do you know anyone who might have it out for Dean? Anyone he's pissed off recently?"

Dr. Brant didn't have to think for long. "Jerry. He's one of the security guards here. He was fired a few days ago after a confrontation with Dean."

"Do you know where he lives?"

"On a lot just out of town. But what do you think-"

Sam didn't let the doctor finish his sentence before he peeled out of the parking lot and onto the road. It seemed like only minutes before they reached the house, though it should have taken them more than half an hour. Sam had sped all the way. If it wasn't so early in the morning he probably would have received a speeding ticket.

Sam wasted no time in exiting the car and leaping onto the porch of the two-storey house. He didn't even knock, trying the handle and then breaking the door down with his shoulder. Dr. Brant followed him, calling his name. He was sure Jerry wouldn't appreciate the violent intrusion, but there was no way to stop him. By the time the doctor made it into the house, Sam was already coming down the staircase leading to the second floor. "There's no one up there," he stated, moving towards the basement.

The stairs were rickety, and as they climbed down the steps an unfinished basement was revealed, lit by a single lightbulb. A chair stood in the far corner, duct tape lining its legs and arms in bands that looked like they had been cut with a knife or scissors. Sam crouched by the chair, looking at something. As the doctor peered over his shoulder, he realized there were bloodstains on the concrete floor.

"He was here," Sam said, his voice shaking. "My brother was here."

/

The house was empty, but Sam was sure that his brother had been here. The chair in the basement made that pretty clear. Dean had been strapped to it at one point or another. The blood on the floor was fresh, which means he had been here recently. As he stepped onto the front porch again, followed by the doctor, Sam looked around. It was a large property, and that meant Jerry could have brought Dean to a multitude of places. He would have suggested that the two split up to search, but he didn't want the doctor stumbling upon a situation he couldn't handle.

"Let's look around back," he said, deciding they had to start somewhere. Dr. Brant nodded, following him as he broke off into a jog around the porch. The back lot was dark, cast in shadow from the trees that surrounded it. Sam cursed, scanning the area but seeing no trace of a human being. "Where are you?" he said beneath his breath.

A gunshot rang through the night, coming from inside the huddle of trees to their left. Sam raced after it, not caring whether the doctor was behind him or not. His heart was thudding in his chest as he bolted into the trees, dread threatening to slow him down, for he feared that he was too late. Branches and twigs scratched at his face, but he barely acknowledged them, even when one sliced his cheek. There was an opening in the trees ahead and he threw himself towards it, entering a clearing several meters in diameter. He came to a halt, his eyes darting around to register if there was any immediate danger present. He wasn't clear on Jerry's appearance or the reason why he had abducted Dean. He only knew that if the man had hurt his brother, he was going to die.

It was difficult to see everything clearly, as there were only the stars and the moon to light the area, but Sam saw the gaping hole in the ground. A mound of fresh dirt and a shovel lay next to it, and his heart sank as he realized it was a grave. "No," he choked out. He knew he would find Dean in that hole. He didn't want to look upon his brother's lifeless body, but he forced himself to drag his feet forward. One, two, three… Just a few more feet. As he neared the edge, he allowed his shaking legs to collapse and he pulled himself forward for the last few feet on his hands and knees. He took a deep breath before he peered over the edge.

Dean was lying on his back at the bottom of the grave, partially buried in dirt. His face was covered in bruises, dark blood streaming from his lips. Sam partially registered that Jerry was sprawled over his brother's legs, unmoving. He stared at his brother's face, willing his eyes to open. "Dean," he said quietly, unable to raise his voice any louder, the word struggling to pass his knotted throat.

There was no reaction.

Sam let his head hang from his shoulders as a shuddering breath escaped his lips. He clutched the side of the grave, his fingers digging into the ground, soft dirt filling the spaces beneath his nails. He could feel his entire body shaking, his vision blurring as he didn't try to fight back the regret and sorrow and anger that were overpowering his senses. He felt like he couldn't breathe. It felt like his entire body had stopped working.

"You got here quicker than I thought you would." The voice was all gravel, the words almost undistinguishable, but Sam recognized it. Lifting his head, he saw Dean staring up at him from the bottom of the grave. "You gonna get me out of here or what?" his brother asked, and Sam couldn't help but beam as he nodded his head. He sat up on his knees, quickly wiping the tears from his face before Dean could see them, and then scrambled down into the grave.

/

Richard Brant had heard stories from hundreds of people, each tragic or joyful or bizarre in their own right. It was his job, his _career_, to listen to the innermost thoughts of strangers. He knew about events that no one else knew about. He could describe to you the way Jake Loren had imagined killing his wife. He could tell you how Jenny and Jill Tory had both been beaten as children by their foster parents. He could explain that Buzz Mangro hated his name, and that even though he weighed more than three-hundred pounds his dream was to become a professional ballet dancer. He was let into people's lives, given detailed information about their hopes and fears, their greatest achievements and their lowest points, but he was only a listener. An outsider. His job was to observe and to analyze. All of his patients remained strangers, because that was how he separated their lives from his. He had always accepted that. He had always played his part well.

But sometimes it was hard to stay in the lines. He had agreed to help Sam, willing to put his career on the line, because he had stepped out of his role. For a moment he thought he had become more than a listener. But watching the two brothers now reminded him of listening to one of the hundreds of stories told in his office. He was here, his shoulders damp with rain and his shoes caked in mud, but he felt as if he was looking in on someone else's memory. The two brothers were so focused on each other that the doctor had been completely forgotten. He was still just an outsider as Sam shoved Jerry's corpse away and crouched down to speak with his brother. "How bad are you hurt?" he heard Sam ask.

"A couple of broken ribs," Dean replied, his voice hoarse. "My shoulder's dislocated. A lot of bruises. I think I have a pretty bad concussion too."

Sam quickly inspected his brother from head to toe, pushing away mounds of dirt where he could. "I'm going to try to lift you out of here, okay? It's going to hurt." Dr. Brant had the sudden thought that these men had done this many times before; taken care of one another. He looked at the brothers now and his mind did what it had done best for 22 years. It analyzed their body movements, their words and tones, and it returned a glaring conclusion. All these two men had in this world were each other.

"Dr. Brant?" Sam called up, shaking the doctor from his thoughts. He squared his shoudlers as he gave the younger man his full attention. "I need you to call 911, and then help me lift Dean out of here, all right?"

He nodded his head, already reaching for his cell phone. As he waited for an operator, he couldn't help but wonder what that must be like. What it must be like to rely on someone to that extent; to have someone you trusted in so completely.

/

"I think we need to get the hell out of here," Dean grunted as he tried to sit up. Sam gave him a disapproving glance.

"You had major surgery less than 48 hours ago and you're already planning your escape?"

Dean scowled from the hospital bed, falling back onto the sheets with an irritated sigh. "Pretty soon they're going to come in here and drag me back to that mental facility. If they thought I was crazy then, they're definitely going to think it now after all of those hits to the head I got. A screw or two _had_ to have been knocked loose in there."

Sam chuckled. "Don't worry. You're not expected to be sent back until after the hospital's cleared you, which means you still have a week or two. I'll get you out of here before then."

"Well just be careful about it," his brother warned. "You're only allowed in here because the doc vouched for you. Don't blow your cover while you're trying to bust me out." He looked up at the ceiling, but Sam knew he wasn't seeing the white paint. He was mulling something over in his mind. "I still don't completely understand what happened. Why did they wait so long to possess Jerry?"

"Ghosts don't usually like to possess human bodies because it's a hell of a lot of trouble for them," Sam explained, naturally switching into fact mode. "Gaining entry into the body is the easy part, but getting out is tough. The only way they can be released is if the person dies or if their body is severely weakened so that they can transfer to another being. I guess that's what happened in your case."

"They used me like a rag doll," Dean protested. "If you hadn't found me when you did, I probably would have died."

Sam swallowed tightly, not wanting to think of that ending scenario. He continued to clarify, hoping to distract himself from the thought. "Most of the time the ghost isn't even strong enough to appear in the person's dreams, let alone control them. I guess the fact that you had two very pissed off spirits inside of you allowed them to control your actions every once in a while."

"Whatever. They got what they wanted. They got their justice." Dean bit his lip, clearly not having let the mistreatment go. "Though I really wish they hadn't used me to get it. I mean, I'm all for the revenge against murdering psycho bastard sons of bitches, but there are _easier_ routes."

Sam gave a half-smile. "I'm just glad it's over."

"Yeah, well… Thanks Sammy."

He looked down, not used to gaining legit praise from his brother. "Just be thankful you won't have to spend another day in Redgrove."

"Yeah, thank god. I couldn't stand another day in that loony-bin. The food was awful, and the company even worse." Sam couldn't laugh at Dean's joke. His mind kept slipping back to the moment he had seen him at the bottom of that grave. He had thought his brother was dead and he had felt… so lost.

"And Sam?" He raised his eyes, Dean staring at him gravely. "Don't ever let me forget you again."

/

Dr. Brant was tasting his wife's famous spaghetti sauce, his arm around her waist as she laughed by the stove, when there was a knock on the door. He excused himself, giving her a kiss on the cheek, as he wondered who it could possibly be. As he swung open the front door, he was prepared to tell whatever Jehovah Witness or Girl Scout waited for him on the other side to go away.

"Dean?" he asked, shocked to see the man on his doorstep. "What- What are you doing here?" Dean grinned, the bruises on his face having faded to a ripe green and yellow.

"Who is it, honey?" his wife called from the kitchen.

"Just a friend!" he replied, too flustered to come up with another explanation. He lowered his voice as he addressed Dean. "You disappeared from the hospital. The police are searching for you-"

"I know, I know," Dean stopped him, not seeming very unnerved by the information. "It's no big deal. In some states they think I'm dead."

Dr. Brant frowned at the strange comment, but stood aside as Dean entered the house. The man looked around the foyer, clearly noting everything it held. "Nice place you got here, doc."

"Thank you. Can we go and talk in the parlor?" He led Dean into the sitting room, closing the french doors behind them. Dean seated himself in a large armchair by the fireplace and Dr. Brant took the matching seat across from him.

"Feels like another session," Dean joked, and the doctor couldn't deny the statement. He crossed his hands on his lap.

"Would you mind telling me why you're here? It's a risk for you, isn't it?"

Dean smiled briefly. "I wanted to thank you. I know that you helped Sam, and without that I probably wouldn't be alive right now. I figured I owe it to you to clear some things up."

"Clear things up?"

"Jerry didn't kill himself" he said bluntly. He then quickly raised his hands, palms forward. "And neither did I."

It wasn't what Dr. Brant had expected Dean to say. In fact, he hadn't asked the brothers for any explanations or specifics because he had thought the less he was involved the better. He had only lied to the authorities when he had to, ensuring that Sam's true identity had not been revealed. He told them how a conversation with Jerry had led him to believe that the former guard had wanted to hurt Dean. How he had asked Dr. Cass to come along with him to confront the man when he had discovered that Dean was missing. How they had heard a gunshot and found Jerry's dead body after he had killed himself. But now Dean had captured his curiosity. "There was someone else there that night?" he asked. "Someone who helped you?"

Dean smiled. "_Help_ is a strong word, doc, but yes, there were others there."

_Others? _Why had Dean not mentioned this to the police?

"You're wondering why I didn't mention it to the police," Dean stated, like he had read his mind. The younger man shifted in his chair, as if the explanation he was about to give made him uncomfortable. "Doc, I'm going to tell you something you probably won't believe. In fact, you might want to throw me back in the loony-bin yourself for it, but that's okay. I think you'll come to your senses eventually."

Richard Brant looked at the man cautiously. "What is it?"

Inhaling deeply, Dean let the air rush out with his words. "Jerry shot himself, but only because he was possessed."

Anyone else may have reacted with shock or disbelief, maybe a laugh or two, but Dr. Brant had heard enough during his career to remain calm and open his mind to the possibility that Dean truly believed what he was saying. "Possessed," he repeated, if only to make sure he had heard correctly.

Dean leaned forward in his chair, clasping his hands together as his elbows rested on his knees. He stared at the doctor very seriously and Dr. Brant found himself strangely wanting to hear what he had to say. "I know you've probably dealt with a lot of patients. Have any of them ever mentioned the supernatural? Ghosts, demons, monsters… anything like that?"

Dr. Brant thought back. He recalled a small child he had tried to help in the year 1989 who had told him about a monster in her basement that had eaten her cat. He had heard similar stories from children before but this little girl had been different. She had been terrified and a few weeks later she had gone missing herself. The police had never found her.

Then there had been the inmate on death row. He'd told the doctor that he wasn't guilty of the crime he had been sentenced for; that it had been someone who only _looked_ like him. He had called it his doppelganger. An obvious lie, but his three little girls and a homeless man had attested that he had been playing in the park with his kids when his wife had been murdered. The security camera in his apartment had said otherwise, however.

Dr. Brant recalled feeling unnerved by these cases. He remembered that after handling both, he had switched to another job, sometimes miles away. They had left him feeling… unclear. He refocused on Dean, realizing that the man had been watching him carefully as he had recollected the past. "They bothered you, didn't they?" he asked quietly. The doctor nodded his head slowly. "You wondered if what they were saying was real. If those things they described actually existed. Maybe you even saw it yourself."

Tommy, his little brother, on the day he had committed suicide. Tommy had always been a happy kid, so Dr. Brant had never understood why he had stepped in front of that car. People explained it by saying his brother had a loose screw; that he had been crazy. It was the reason Richard Brant had become a psychiatrist. He had wanted to make sure that nothing like that happened to another person again. But Tommy's eyes had been all wrong that day. Richard could still clearly see his little brother looking back at him, grinning like a fool, his eyes black. Completely black, like empty pits in his face. And then he had stepped down from the curb and walked straight into oncoming traffic, smiling all the way.

Dr. Brant stopped a shiver from running down his spine. He had not recalled that memory in decades. He had locked it away when he was young, telling himself it was not what he had actually seen.

"I thought so," Dean said, something almost like sympathy in his voice. He leaned back in his chair. "Sometimes people aren't all that crazy, doc." He was shaking his head from side to side. "Sometimes they aren't lying."

"Are you telling me that-" He was having trouble speaking. "That these things… That they… actually exist?"

"They're as real as you and me, doc. Some are harmless, but the majority of them aren't out to do good. They're what landed me in the psych ward. They're what killed Jerry. And those two weren't even _bad_ by my standards. Just… revengeful and a little inconsiderate."

Dr. Brant shook his head, looking at his hands in his lap. "This is crazy," he said to himself.

Dean laughed. "Nice choice of words. I know that's what it sounds like. But you've seen it yourself, and you have the ability to do something about it."

The doctor looked up at him. "What can I possibly do?"

Dean frowned. "Learn to look closer. When a patient tells you a story that sounds crazy maybe try to believe them. You know the truth now. You can stop it from hurting more people."

Dr. Brant couldn't help but analyze the expression on Dean's face. The man was, angry, sad, resentful, _determined_. He was all of these things in one, plus more, but the doctor realized now that Dean was far too complicated for him to even begin to try to understand. But he did grasp one thing. "Is that what you and your brother do?" he asked. "Do you save people?"

Dean smirked, that perfect, overconfident mask claiming his features again. "We do what we can."

He nodded once. "I think I understand."

"I hope I haven't spoiled your night," Dean said as he stood. "I'd stick around to answer more of your questions, but my brother and I have a case down in New Mexico." He reached into his pocket and took out a scrap of paper. "Here's my cell number. Feel free to call if you need any…" He shrugged. "Help."

Dr. Brant took the paper, staring down at the ten digits. "I will," he promised.

"Then maybe I'll see you later, doc." The man raised a hand in farewell as he walked backwards, towards the doors. "I can show myself out."

As he disappeared through the doorway, Richard Brant clutched the paper he held in his hand, staring at the empty entrance. He had the strange sensation that his world had shifted, though he supposed it had done so more than twenty years ago. It had just taken him this long to acknowledge it. He hoped he would never have to use the number Dean had given him, but he felt a little comfort knowing he had it. Just incase.

For fear that Dean really wasn't crazy.

* * *

**The end.**


End file.
